agogemod: (Default)
⌞THE AGOGE⌝ MODS ([personal profile] agogemod) wrote in [community profile] agogelogs2018-02-12 10:55 am

Sometimes they are five. Sometimes they are three.


We do not merely destroy our enemies;
we change them.


WELCOME TO THE END OF TIME.

The Regency has its spies and its cloaks and daggers. You may have even brushed shoulders with one and not have known it. There is a place for such tactics. You are not in that place any longer.




On missions like these, the Regency prefers to keep its base close, in a intradimensional time pocket. You're apart from Gallipoli, no longer technically on Earth or in the 1910s. There are multiple segments to this complex base of Regency operations, but you can only really see two places...

THE BRIG

This is your holding cell, a constantly shifting room of indesctructable grey squares. It folds and bends to hold you and your seven companions as you await... something.

There are no guards in this place. There are no bars to look through, or sounds to listen for. You are simply in the box, left to your own devices.

Occasionally, holes will open in the ceiling, and packaged, processed rations will fall from them before immediately closing. This is the only way to measure time. There are always exactly eight bags, each with the name of one captive written on the side in their native language.

Holes will occasionally open in the walls, and they always bring with them a searingly bright light. Sleeping and sitting is difficult on the ever-shifting floors, and when you try, it always seems like a pinhole of light opens right on your eyes. Even leaning on the walls has mixed results.

DON'T GO TOWARDS THE LIGHT

The windows of light that open always stay very small, making it difficult to look through, and always pour radiantly bright, hot light. If you're feeling particularly self-punishing, you might be able to peek at an odd angle and see something of the world outside without being completely flashblinded. The world outside the Brig looks rather like the interior of a Dyson sphere. In the center, a great, bright, hot energy radiates out like a sun, and it reflects off the exterior globe the pocket dimension functions within, illuminating everything from every angle. The Brig floats around it in a slow orbit, as do many other similar looking box-rooms made of similar material, connected by constantly moving tubes and chutes. Some boxes have more chutes going toward them than others. No chutes connect to the Brig, unless someone is about to disappear into the floor...

Getting this view will be difficult, but not impossible; it will just take characters willing to blind themselves with an overabundance of light multiple times until they get the correct angle, allowing them to see outside for roughly a half second before the room shifts to redirect the light back into their eyes.

not so solitary confinement

Occasionally, the cube will split into smaller segments, throwing characters together with others at random in close confinement. This is unpredictable and fast, splitting you off from the whole for what feels like hours at a time, often with only one companion as the cube shifts and squirms around you.

technical malfunction

The power nullification is still in full effect. No magic or special abilities rule this place. Your only master are the walls, undulating with no discernible pattern, always moving.

The Regency has also attempted to break the BCE's translation capabilities, but due to the fact that COST-jailbroken BCEs work on a different system than Regency ones, this is an intermittent problem that occurs sporadically. (ie, have the translation capabilities blink in and out at your discretion.)

THE OTHER PLACE

And then, suddenly, the floor drops out from underneath you. The shifting walls make a hole perfectly your shape and size, and sucks you through. The hole closes neatly, immediately, and you slide along in a world of boxes pressing close to your skin as you are moved from one holding area to another.

When you emerge, you do so in total darkness. Power nullification is still in effect, but even if you can naturally see in the dark, it doesn't matter. All you can see is an endless blackness, and walking doesn't help. You can keep walking for however long; there is nothing to walk to. The floor is perfectly level, but you'll never reach a wall.

Finally, there's light in the distance. A spotlight from nowhere shines down on a person with the head of a jackal. Looking closer, you'll find it's some kind of highly technical mask. They are wearing armor that obscures their exact shape-- no skin shows, no hint of identity or personality, just the cold eyes of the mask. They turn to you, and speak in a voice clear and soothing, almost gentle.

"I am Kebechet. I have been looking forward to speaking with you."

bloodings: (in the eyes)

[personal profile] bloodings 2018-02-12 11:21 pm (UTC)(link)
The destination is even more disorienting than the journey, though she'd fought all the way through that, too; desperate for any sort of opening, any sort of escape. Hands grasping for purchase on the walls, even her feet lashing out for an opening, until... nothing. But nothingness of a different sort than before. Freedom to go where she wants, but no point in doing so.

Pointless or not, she can't just sit still. In the dark, she stumbles around, shouting, reaching, looking for something (or someone) to grab hold of. To demand answers from. When the figure appears in the distance, her head whips around, and she glares. She's exhausted. She doesn't have her sword, her armour, or her Master. She's weak. Only a fool would pick a fight with an unknown enemy under such circumstances.

Mordred has always been foolish. Closing the distance between them with newfound energy, she bares her teeth in anger, taking a swing at Kebechet's mask-clad face.

"Bastard! You're gonna regret screwing with me!"
agogenpc: (⌞KEBECHET⌝)

[personal profile] agogenpc 2018-02-13 03:06 pm (UTC)(link)
Kebechet sidesteps the blow without apparent difficulty or surprise. Mordred's fist does connect with something, though. A wooden beam. As soon as the hit lands, the setting is different, so suddenly it's almost as though it's always been that way: a stable, horses nickering peacefully, birds chirping outside, the faint smell of oncoming rain and horses and hard work done in poor weather. They're alone, aside from the horses, who don't seem spooked by the new crack in a support beam. Kebechet reaches up to touch the wood, and it rights itself, snapping back into proper place.

Only then does Kebechet acknowledge Mordred. "I had hoped a prince would show princely manner." Disapproval mingles in that calm, cool voice
bloodings: (and it's not enough)

[personal profile] bloodings 2018-02-13 05:06 pm (UTC)(link)
It hurts more than it should, hitting the beam. More than she's used to. Something in her hand aches from the force of the punch, and she shakes it out, trying to take in her new surroundings all at once. But once Kebechet speaks, she focuses in on them again. Disapproval? Good.

"Prince? I'm a king," she hisses, angry. Someone didn't get the memo on not revealing things about herself — or more likely, she just doesn't care. Some things can't go uncorrected. "So cut the crap. Did you come here just to piss me off? Because I'm not interested in small talk."
agogenpc: (⌞KEBECHET⌝)

[personal profile] agogenpc 2018-02-13 06:53 pm (UTC)(link)
"Forgive me; I missed news of your coronation." Sarcastic, or perhaps genuinely apologetic; it's impossible to tell. In the distance, a robin makes an echoing birdsong. "What are you interested in, Your Highness? I've not the time for petty insults, even from one of your station."
bloodings: (would you cry)

[personal profile] bloodings 2018-02-14 02:08 am (UTC)(link)
"Tch." Her eyes narrow in annoyance, but it's hard to react when she doesn't know the real tone of the comment. Left with a choice of staying close to Kebechet or exploring the new reality, she chooses the latter; pausing, just a moment, at the question. What is she interested in?

The answer is obvious.

"Dumbass. The only thing I want is your head." Some attitude creeps back into her voice, despite her fatigue. "And I'll take your ugly mask as a trophy, too."
agogenpc: (⌞KEBECHET⌝)

[personal profile] agogenpc 2018-02-15 01:31 am (UTC)(link)
"You'll find that more difficult than you think." It's a warning, not bragging, though Kebechet's tone stays ambiguous, making it potentially difficult to tell. "One does not rise to my position without skill."
bloodings: (all the world to me)

[personal profile] bloodings 2018-02-15 01:59 am (UTC)(link)
"But you're scared of me. Of us. You wouldn't do this crap otherwise."

The kidnapping. The isolation. The power nullification. Mordred fights dirty, but she's the first to admit it — and she has limits. This isn't even a fight to begin with. Her tone is jeering, trying to incense her opponent, annoyed at the mask and ambiguous tone.

"You're scared of humanity, too. That's why you're trying to change things." She smirks. "I hate humans, but even I wouldn't pull a stunt like this. You screwed up when you made me your enemy."
agogenpc: (⌞KEBECHET⌝)

[personal profile] agogenpc 2018-02-15 02:37 am (UTC)(link)
Kebechet turns away, showing their back as they walk toward the door. "I see us as allies, your majesty. Seeing it differently is a regrettable flaw in perspective. I worry for your ideology."
bloodings: (step back for all)

[personal profile] bloodings 2018-02-15 03:08 am (UTC)(link)
"Allies?" She actually laughs at that: a harsh, unpleasant sound. "Fool. I'm the Knight of Rebellion. I rebel against people like you."

Against order. Against kings, regents, anyone in power. Mordred, the Treacherous Knight, shadow to the radiance of all others. She watches them go, not moving immediately to follow.

"Leaving already? Well, it's fine if you run away from me."
agogenpc: (⌞KEBECHET⌝)

[personal profile] agogenpc 2018-02-15 03:11 am (UTC)(link)
"You fear to follow?" The sound of shouting can be heard outside. Kebechet's hand lingers on the door of the barn. "Let us see the England you shall rule, with such a tumult at heart."
bloodings: (all made real)

[personal profile] bloodings 2018-02-15 03:41 am (UTC)(link)
Her eyes widen, briefly, unbidden — then narrow again.

"You know nothing of my father's country. Don't think you can mock me with it."

Still, always, 'my father's country', not 'my country', even when speaking of her own future rule. Britain, England, belongs to King Arthur, was loved by King Arthur, and it will always be his first and foremost. Hers only to take, to usurp, not to inherit. That's why she needs the Holy Grail, for the chance to draw the sword from the stone, to prove herself her father's equal.

And yet, despite her dismissive comment, she turns, strides past Kebechet, makes to push the door open herself. Her actions speak for her, louder than her words.
agogenpc: (⌞KEBECHET⌝)

[personal profile] agogenpc 2018-02-16 12:42 am (UTC)(link)
"I know much of Ancient England. Some of my ancestors hailed from those shores."

But Kebechet lets her go. She crashes through the door, only to find a wasteland outside. A battlefield, knights dead and dying in the mud, screaming horses and broken swords. The sky is dark, and ravens circle, looking for carrion. In the far distance, the fighting continues.
bloodings: (your life means)

[personal profile] bloodings 2018-02-16 01:37 am (UTC)(link)
She's seen this — or something like it — before. The hill where she killed her father, and where her father killed her. A hand goes to her chest, half-expecting to find Rhongomyniad piercing through it. But it's not the actual battle of Camlann, just a scene equal in destruction to it. Destruction on a scale that should only ever happen once.

Mordred doesn't turn her face away, though. She stares in silence, listening to the screams, smelling the rot.

"Yeah? Then listen close," she says, finally. "I won't fail like my father did. Even if he was perfect— I'll surpass him. I'll show you that you're wrong."

About her. About him. She faces Kebechet again, her hand sweeping wide, taking in the battlefield.

"After all, I'm the only one who can destroy this land. You don't get to decide Britain's fate." And if she chooses to preserve it, instead, then this scene should never come to pass. "You're just pissing me off. Quit messing with my stuff."
agogenpc: (⌞KEBECHET⌝)

[personal profile] agogenpc 2018-02-16 02:22 am (UTC)(link)
"Why do you think I have any judgement upon you at all?" Kebechet's head tilts slightly in the putrid breeze. "Do you often find yourself judged and found wanting? Considering your unique circumstances..." Kebechet shrugs, and steps over a body before them. They plod through the mud and the blood. "But your fragile feelings are not why we are here, Mordred."
bloodings: (their lack of faith in you)

[personal profile] bloodings 2018-02-16 03:12 am (UTC)(link)
She flinches, almost imperceptive. Not at her name, not at being called fragile, but at the implication of what they might know. Even if the Regency know who she is (and they do, clearly), none of that made it into the history books. None of her hatred, her anger at her birth, life, death. Only the final confrontation, with none of the emotion.

The fact it might just be bait doesn't occur to her. Balling her hands into fists, she steps follows Kebechet, her footsteps heavy.

"Shut up." It's angrier, carrying none of the smug attitude of before. "I'm going to kill you. So if you have something to say, then say it now."
agogenpc: (⌞KEBECHET⌝)

[personal profile] agogenpc 2018-02-16 03:37 am (UTC)(link)
Kebechet raises their hand. Mordred stands in rags, defenseless, without weapons or armor. "How do you intend to do that?"
bloodings: (i let you know)

[personal profile] bloodings 2018-02-16 04:29 am (UTC)(link)
She shrugs.

"You can't keep me here forever. Eventually, you'll either kill me or trade me for something. And when that happens..." Her fist smacks against her open palm, the smirk on her face a little forced. "I'll come for you. You and your stupid mask."
agogenpc: (⌞KEBECHET⌝)

[personal profile] agogenpc 2018-02-17 12:15 am (UTC)(link)
"You seem very eager to do harm to one who has done none to you. A worrisome trait in royalty."

Kebechet sighs. "But I see you will not be reasoned with. I wish only to converse with you as befitting both our stations. I will ask you one last time: Will you calm? Or will I be forced to take more serious measures?"
bloodings: ♫ break } before their eyes (sometimes i feel)

[personal profile] bloodings 2018-02-17 02:02 am (UTC)(link)
"You kidnapped me, asshole. And now you're messing around with Britain."

Maybe they haven't harmed her physically, but the isolation — taking her away from her Master — is still disruptive. If anything happens to Ryuji, or to anyone else, because she isn't there to help, she'll feel responsible.

"If you want an obedient pawn, look somewhere else. I'm not playing along with your crap." With no better way to show her distaste, she lifts her middle finger and thrusts out her hand. "I've already seen what you're trying to do."
agogenpc: (⌞KEBECHET⌝)

[personal profile] agogenpc 2018-02-17 02:12 am (UTC)(link)
"I do not want a pawn. I wish to speak plainly with this king I've heard so much about."

Something like a sigh emanates from Kebechet's mask.

"But it seems you are not the regal creature I've read so much about. So be it." And Kebechet... begins to disappear so subtly that it's as though they were never there, leaving Mordred alone on the battlefield. She may begin to feel something strange in her gut-- not painful, but shifting, heavy and familiar. Looking down, there will be a sword hilt growing out of her midsection, less as though she was stabbed, and more like it was always meant to be there. It's proper place, the stone it could be drawn from.
bloodings: (their lack of faith in you)

[personal profile] bloodings 2018-02-17 03:13 am (UTC)(link)
The relief she feels at Kebechet's disappearance is tinged with wariness — at what might come next, at the idea of being left here instead of in the cube. Her instincts brace for an attack, but there's no preparing for what actually comes. She stares, dumbfounded, as the sword grows out of her, grabbing the hilt as if to try and stop it.

"Hey! What the hell?" A demand shouted across the bloody plain. Mordred has no doubt Kebechet, or someone else, is watching. Watching to see if she breaks. She hisses in anger, even as her gut churns. "Screw you! You think you could stand before my father with this?"

With both hands on the hilt, she yanks, grimacing at the sensation. It feels rooted in her body, like she's ripping a part of herself out. And yet she pulls with all her strength, as if she's proving her worth to the real sword in the stone, no matter her own fate.
agogenpc: (⌞KEBECHET⌝)

[personal profile] agogenpc 2018-02-17 07:33 pm (UTC)(link)
The sword doesn't budge. It stays where it is, growing larger, the full length and more of the weapon that killed Mordred so long ago. The sharp edge embeds itself in a great ash tree behind her, sticking there, firmly in place. Mordred is pinned, trapped, stuck watching the scene unfold in front of her.

A coronation.

The Once and Future King sits on her throne, holding a circlet crown. She places it upon the head of another woman, blond and identical, but the beatific smile, the inner peace and grace, all point to an imposer. This is not Mordred. This is someone else. A third in a line of regal women, a late-comer, or something worse. Whoever she is, this replacement is deemed superior; she receives the crown with grace. She bows, and assembled crowds clap. All acknowledge her, and bow in return.

No one acknowledges Mordred, if they can hear or see her at all.
bloodings: (in the eyes)

[personal profile] bloodings 2018-02-17 09:13 pm (UTC)(link)
She can't pull it. It belongs in her, doesn't it? After all, she died still impaled by that lance; reaching out for her father one last time. Begging for his touch, and going unanswered. Her greatest fear—

—And it's happening again, right before her eyes. It has to be an illusion. But without her Instinct to guide her, to clear her sight, it feels as real as any other, and she howls. Full of rage, misery, and above all else, pain.

"That crown... belongs... to me!" Not really — but in her mind, it does, as surely as it belongs to King Arthur. Of course, she's deflecting. It isn't the crown that bothers her the most, but the acknowledgment. That her father would deign someone else worthy over her. No one loved the king more than her. No one followed the king as earnestly as her. And yet: "Do you hate me that much? Then I'll kill you! King Arthur!"

King Arthur. The impostor. Every single person in the crowd ignoring her. She reaches for her father, hands outstretched, as if to choke the life out of him herself. Even if she has to drag her entire body along the weapon growing into it.
agogenpc: (⌞KEBECHET⌝)

[personal profile] agogenpc 2018-02-17 10:04 pm (UTC)(link)
None of the guests at the coronation notice Mordred. None save Arthur, perfect and resplendent as he was in life, turning his head toward Mordred at the last moment. He raises a gloved hand to point at his rejected heir, and makes a decisive gesture, a downward slash.

Blood begins to pour from the wound in Mordred's gut. Only now can the pain of it be felt. Still, it won't move.

Kebechet is at her shoulder, curious. "Is this how you want things?"
bloodings: (to save us all)

[personal profile] bloodings 2018-02-17 10:40 pm (UTC)(link)
She screams. The pain can't kill her, but it's almost enough to make her wish for death; even as she keeps trying to drag herself forward. Clenched against the shaft, her palms start to bleed, too, knuckles white from the force of her grip. And still, she lives, her rage refusing to subside.

"Father," she says, looking at the man (woman) that forms her mirror image. It sounds angry — but more than that, heartbroken. Her voice cracks when she twists her neck to look at Kebechet, eyes blazing with hatred. "You're the one holding me here! Let me go, you fool!"

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