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exsiliumlogs2012-05-20 03:42 pm
septim) wrote in exsiliumlogs2012-05-20 03:42 pm
( Open )
Date & Time: May 20th, afternoon to night
Location: All over the Initiative Hold, then Flat β 205
Characters:Martin Septim and whoever!
Summary: "The Septims see more than mortal men," they said. I could've skipped the hallucinations, I say.
Warnings: Hallucinations
Martin awoke stiff-limbed at the library, hair damp and tangled. Too often he'd fallen asleep at desks, late-night readings pushing through exhaustion until he collapsed, to be concerned about the why or how of this occasion.
But the dread coiling in his chest isn't normal, nor are the ghost of images seen but not remembered. What had he dreamed? He combs through his memories, recalling his father, Uriel VII, warning him about an impending something, to aid the Initiative, his only hope...
"Please, you have to believe me!" He clings to the person's shirt as if a desperate, scared childβMartin certainly looks it, haunted eyes and a pleading, higher-pitched voice. No one listens to those who are mad, of course, and Martin ends up thrown onto the floor, tasting his own blood.
Hallucinations? No, his father wouldn't mislead him. His father saw more than mortal men. Perhaps it's his turn now. He has to warn them, to convince them that Initiative is their only hope for survival, just as his father did against the daedric invasion of Tamriel.
Martin bolts from the library, dashing madly towards someone, anyone, who will listen. He sees the shadows of Masked in every corner, hears the whispers of spies as his throat tightens, unable to speak.
Location: All over the Initiative Hold, then Flat β 205
Characters:
Martin Septim and whoever!Summary: "The Septims see more than mortal men," they said. I could've skipped the hallucinations, I say.
Warnings: Hallucinations
Martin awoke stiff-limbed at the library, hair damp and tangled. Too often he'd fallen asleep at desks, late-night readings pushing through exhaustion until he collapsed, to be concerned about the why or how of this occasion.
But the dread coiling in his chest isn't normal, nor are the ghost of images seen but not remembered. What had he dreamed? He combs through his memories, recalling his father, Uriel VII, warning him about an impending something, to aid the Initiative, his only hope...
"Please, you have to believe me!" He clings to the person's shirt as if a desperate, scared childβMartin certainly looks it, haunted eyes and a pleading, higher-pitched voice. No one listens to those who are mad, of course, and Martin ends up thrown onto the floor, tasting his own blood.
Hallucinations? No, his father wouldn't mislead him. His father saw more than mortal men. Perhaps it's his turn now. He has to warn them, to convince them that Initiative is their only hope for survival, just as his father did against the daedric invasion of Tamriel.
Martin bolts from the library, dashing madly towards someone, anyone, who will listen. He sees the shadows of Masked in every corner, hears the whispers of spies as his throat tightens, unable to speak.
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But that's not what needed to be on his mind at the time. Only a few hours ago β maybe a day, maybe β the doctor had said Martin, older Martin, had disappeared. Or simply stopped showing up where he tended to be. Neither was comforting, and the small Martin became worried. Worried enough to commit to looking, even, though in hindsight he was kicking himself for that. How was he supposed to find anybody in this place? And was it really his business to?
He kind of made it his, spur of the moment. No getting out of it now, as far as he was concerned.
Of course, he wasn't sure where he ought to be looking; before retreating from the day, he'd gone ahead and meandered around the outskirts of the Hold to little avail, not very thoroughly at that. This new night was fresh and all too open to hours upon hours of unguided searching.
How fortunate for him that his quarry wound up practically running him over before he'd barely had time to make a lap around the place!
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(Somewhere in the back of his addled mind, older Martin realizes that this isn't the first time he's (literally) run into younger Martin. Apologies are due, whenever they aren't under the threat of a doom that shall sweep the land, courtesy of the United Earth)
"What you doing here? You have to get inside, now!" Martin Septim tries to usher Martin Darkov somewhere sheltered, not the nowhere outside the Hold. They're incredibly vulnerable in their current location, easy pickings for the Masked.
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Martin was a whirlwind of sound and confusion, and this Martin was...very confused. He hardly managed to put up much of a struggle, finding himself pushed, dragged, and otherwise forced toward the nearest closed space. The panic was gleaned off of the elder, but save for that, there were none of the telltale sensations the Darkov knew meant trouble.
"W-wait!" he stammered, managing to lodge his foot against the frame of a door, scrambling to press against it with his hands and just stop. "Wait, what's going on? Sir? Martin? What'sββ"
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Martin's cat-in-a-bath-like restraint at the door lost much of its strength when he processed Masked and let that sink in. It didn't take too much of a push to get the boy through the door, tripping over his own feet and flailing for balance. He came to a graceless stop, arms out in the air and one foot just short of the next footfall.
He doesn't hold pose for long.
"They're back?" He turned toward the fear-stricken man, starting to get that dreadful feeling on his neck out of pure expectation to. "Why? W-what're they doing?"
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"Wait!" he cried quickly, moving a little, but hesitating. "Wait, but...John said you were missing, and everyone's saying people are going, and..." He shook his head quickly, all full of too many thoughts at once. "And can't you tell them with the, the..." He made a gesture, the more-or-less shape of the computer. "The thing? That everyone uses?"
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With his hair a tangled mess, stubble growing coarsely on his face, Martin looked terrible, dazed in a manic panic so unlike him it was frightening to see. "Missing? Who said I was missing?" Try as he might, Martin can't remember just who this John is.
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"Yes, Martin, what is happening?" demands Anders of the taller Martin. "You've been missing for days. Your kitten is suffering from emotional distress. Your kitten, the grey one, remember him? The one you named after your father?"
Anders still thinks that's sort of odd. Ser Pounce-a-lot is a normal name. You wouldn't catch Anders naming a pet after a dead relative.
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The littler Martin nearly leaped out of his own skin with Anders' approach, so unexpected as it was. Rather, so fixated as Martin was on the frazzled elder. He whirled around, all gaping eyes and shrugged-up shoulders. For a moment, he thought it the Masked, just as Septim had said.
But...But no, this was somebody different. Someone...a friend? Martin didn't know.
He winced, loathe to interrupt or leave or...or do much of anything. He shuffled back steps away from Anders, standing a distance and between the two, mouth clamped shut and taut in a worried frown. With no answers or assurances coming at all from Septim, his gaze began to stick to Anders, the stranger. What's wrong with him? Fix it!
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For once Anders is not the mage who's freaking out!"He has nightmares like this, sometimes, wakes us all up with yelling about the daedra. Never about the Masked, though, and never when he's awake ..."Anders has an idea. "If he's under any kind of enchantment, this ought to shake him out of it. Keep standing clear of him," and with that, his attention is back to the gibbering heap of Imperial wreckage piled against the door.
He points his staff at Martin and attempts to dispel whatever effect is plaguing the man.
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A staff drawn towards you so suddenly is never good news, but Martin has no time for a magical ward. He winces as the magic hits him, not in pain but surprise, a hiss as the shower of sparks washes over his body, then fades.
He opens his mouth, brows knitted in annoyance, but then his expression shifts into blankness, nonplussed. "Anders?" He says in realization, then stares at Martin Darkov for a couple of seconds, gears finally starting to turn towards something other than imminent danger. "I think I'm under some sort of Fear spell," he confesses. "I recognize this state of mindless panic."
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To...
Huh?
Wait, but. But there's no screaming or blood or pain. The Septim was, actually, coherent.
Martin looked plainly baffled by the whole thing, staring from one man to the other with weak attempts at making it make sense.
He just pointed a stick at him and...
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And so, of course, he does, starting up at and easy lope and easily catching up to follow on his heels. He doesn't speak, not yet, just watches with wide-eyed interest. ]