atonementlogs | event 003: the potions

Entry tags:

!event

event 003: the potions

Characters: All.

When: April 1st - 30th

Where: Various locations.

Warnings: None. Please put any warnings in the comment subject if it progresses that way!

The weather will continue to be Spring-like for the rest of this month, with the occasional storm or shower here and there. Once again, all citizen's will be alerted to go to the center of Penance to see about their punishment for the month of April!

As usual, a tent has been set up with plenty of food and drink set up on tables, with another one off to the corner containing letters addressed to each citizen, along with bottles of potion for each. Each person is invited to take a bottle and either drink it now, slip it to someone else, or saved it for later.

The effects are described as being random. The person who consumes the liquid may see the ghost of someone they've harmed in the past that will follow them around, screaming their sins to all around. It mayse severe, nearly deadly pain. It may take away one of the taker's senses, whether it's sight, hearing, touch, smell, or taste, or even all of them.

If citizens would rather go another route, they are free to make use of the Sin Lounge and deliver torture or pain to each other.

For those eager for more, citizens may take as many punishments as they want during the month!

With their new letter collected, it is time for all to decide their new punishment and face it bravely!

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[Today is a grim day for the hybrid terminator. He forces himself to stare at his fear, a simple hypodermic needle, as he leaves the sin lounge, he slips the needle in his coat pocket.]

He knocked on the good doctor's door after getting the potion today. The potions described themselves as random and the man sighed after filling the potion up like his death all over again and grits his teeth.

"Hello, Jaz. Ready to get this punishment over with?"

Edited 2018-04-02 18:42 (UTC)

[Jezebel just looks grim, jaw clenched while he watches Marcus load up the needle. He won't make a fuss, he won't cause any commotion, but he does not look forward to this. He'll do what he has to, because of what this place demands and because he was lucky enough to dodge anything painful the previous month.

Still.

He was not going to enjoy this.

Jezebel nods slightly, flexing his fingers anxiously.]

As ready as I'll ever be, I imagine.

[Marcus nods and lifts the needle out from his pocket.

"Hold still. Moving will make it hurt more."

[He moves the needle toward Jaz's arm.]

Even I'm not sure what this month's punishment will be.

[Ianchus bursts out of the tent with a grand gesture, arms stretched wide. He's wearing a frozen rictus of a grin, and anyone could see the rage emanating through it. He's holding an empty potion flask in one hand, a bottle of the wine that was on the table with the other. ]

Do you hear him! You all do, right?

[He laughs, and then throws the empty flask, and takes a long drink from the bottle.]

Fratricide! Parricide! Regicide! My hands are clean of the deed itself, but I'm complicit, he says! And he'd know, wouldn't he!

[His voice rises, as if trying to drown out an imaginary voice. He whirls around, grabbing the first person he sees by the arms, baring the grin at him. His grip is unbelievably tight.]

It's me! Do you hear him? I've killed the Cepheos line.

[Jezebel nods tightly, arm out, fingers balled into each other. His face is still set in a grimace, but he doesn't flinch or pull away when Marcus approaches him. All he does is watch the needle come closer to him with clear trepidation.]

I don't either. I suppose I'll find out.

[The needle slips into a vein and Marcus watches to see what happens and doesn't pull it out until the potion is gone.]

He steps back, hiding his own grim look.

[Jezebel watches with a fatalistic fascination when the needle slips in, determined to keep still and calm until he knew what was going to happen.

And then the plunger descends and it is immediately very, very clear what is going to happen. The potion sets his veins alight with pain as its pumped in, and he lets out a small, sharp noise as it slips into him and burn through his arm.

It's not even a second before he can trace his own blood with the way it flows up to his shoulder, pulsing with agony as it floods into his chest and his head. When it reaches his heart and his head, he lets out a stricken noise and catches himself on the table, knocking over some of the vials of potion as he struggles to stay upright.

But it burns, oh God, it burns and it hurts and it's everywhere and it's inside his body and it takes all his strength not to try to scratch it out. He shakes and goes pale and wild-eyed while he tries to keep himself steady, but the potion doesn't weaken as it courses through him, and it's all he can do not to scream.]

[Marcus feels Ianchus's own grip get unbearingly tight on his arms and the man's grin looks very strange.]

"Who are you talking to, Ianchus?"

[Marcus grit his teeth and keeps a frown on his face as he forces himself to watch, fighting the urge to let the punishment run its course.

[The pain is bad enough that he practically forgets Marcus is there. All of his attention is on the way he can trace every line of very vein and artery in his body, and how all of them are screaming. It's as if he's being burned alive from within, flames pulsing through his with every heartbeat.

Outwardly, the only changes to him are the choked-down noises of pain that burst out of his mouth and the way he's gone even paler than he usually is. His eyes are wide but seem to see nothing, staring focused on the table in front of him blankly while he fights to stay upright.

It's a fight he loses when a new crest of pain sweeps him, and his legs buckle. He crashes to the floor and practically smacks his face on the table edge on the way down, not that he'd have really noticed. Jezebel lands in a crumpled heap on the ground, his fingers curled into tight, shaking fists while he forces himself not to claw at his own skin for a feeling of relief that he know won't happen.]

Ah, Marcus--you can't see him? Of course you can't!

[He turns briefly, narrowing his eyes at whatever's behind him]

He always was the sort to slink along like a whipped dog, wasn't he, hiding in the shadows, tagging along just to irritate me. I told you to go back! All you can do is talk and talk and talk--

[Ianchus turns back to Marcus, tightening his grip on his arm.]

Well, he's a coward but he's right. I don't care about anyone.

[Jezebel is sitting off to the side, still recovering from his own punishment. The pain has subsided from torturous into a throbbing ache all through his body, leaving him feeling weak and disoriented. He sits by himself for a long while and pays attention to nothing until Ianchus bursts out of his tent, looking far more wild-eyed than Jezebel's ever seen him.

When he grabs for Jezebel, he looks at him with a bewildered expression.] Ianchus -- whatever you're hearing, it's just the potions talking.

[He lets out a long drawn out, single-note laugh, more like a long exhale]

Ah, ah, but you see, Jezebel--

[He uses the other man's first name without even thinking about it, the first time he omitted the title. He doesn't let go of Jezebel's arm.]

Potions or not, he's absolutely right.

[His voice is lower, deadlier, boiling over with anger and bitterness.]

[He catches the use of his name and that Ianchus's fingers are still gripping his arm, but he doesn't comment on them, not yet. Instead, he simply asks:]

Who is it you're seeing?

[His eyes are cold and flinty, incredibly aware, and they lock on Jezebel.]

I'm not mad.

[It's a forceful hiss, and he turns, sweeping his arm out at the empty air, eyes fixed on the ranting, slim man that only he can see.]

Meet Aetna Suveros, my shadow, royal attendant, who seems to have gotten lost.

[There's hate in his voice, controlled, and he spits the words out like darts.]

I don't think you're mad.

[Drunk and hallucinating, yes, but not mad.

He glances behind Ianchus at the gesture, even though there's no one there and he sees nothing.]

What has he done to you?

[Ianchus' eyes are fixed on the empty place, and his grip tightens on Jezebel's hand briefly before he lets go, stepping up to it, looking down at a fixed point.]

He can't let go of the past. He insists I should sit on the throne. Me!

[Another sharp laugh--his strong lungs lend a different, booming edge to the same honeyed voice he usually speaks in.

He lifts the bottle of wine, tilting it, as if pouring it over someone's head. His voice lowers to a whisper.]

Can you imagine. Is that how much blood means.

Blood can mean a very great deal to some. [Even an aristocrat's bastard knows that much. For a moment, he thinks of his father and Cain, and then pushes their faces out of his mind.]

You have no throne to take while you're here. You have no obligations or lineage here. You don't have to worry about any of that.

I know. I know!

[That's the only reason that Aetna is here, after all. The blood that pumps in his veins is a chain across seas, and he'd almost have preferred assassins versus this man, needling him in his thin voice, reminding him of everything he had lost.]

Ah, but--but perhaps that's my key to redemption, isn't it. Perhaps that's my goal.

[He raises his voice into a roar.]

Is this the way out of hell?!

Perhaps. Perhaps not.

Perhaps it's neither. This is meant to be a punishment, not necessarily enlightenment. It may be something to hurt you without any meaning beyond that.

It's not hurting me.

[It's absolutely hurting him, digging deep and pulling the bile from out of him, pulling the nihilism and bitterness out of him full force.

He puts a hand over his eyes, and suddenly freezes, a thought hitting him.
He whirls on Jezebel, striding back over to him and leaning over him, baring his teeth at him in a spiteful grin, close enough so that Jezebel can smell the wine on his breath.]

Ah but--but. But. Perhaps you can help me.

[Jezebel tenses and there is a warier, caged-animal look on his face now. Because even if he Ianchus has never given Jezebel reason to be uneasy around him, there is still the old instinctive paranoia. And Ianchus is drunk, and angry, and standing over him, and very likely stronger than him. And Jezebel is even weaker than he usually is, the potion having drained him thoroughly of what little physical ability he has normally.

Carefully, he asks:] And how would I do that?

[Ianchus cups the side of Jezebel's jaw, almost tenderly, heat radiating off his hand. His face softens a little, but that spite is there--not directed at the man in front of him, though. Jezebel seems to be in the eye of the storm here. His other hand finds Jezebel's pale, thin hand, picking it up and holding it, thumb carressing the fingers.]

Perhaps. Perhaps you can return to Carrah with me.

[A little laugh--he knows it's impossible, but he's wrapped in his bitterness and fantasy.]

Behind every mad monarch is a man with his hands on the hot irons, right? To run the gallows, to feed the Bull.

[It's a reference to the brazen bull again, of course, a perennial favorite.]

You could be him. You'll castrate the men, I'll take their wives, I'll run a country of fear and sire hundreds of bastards, the Mad King Cepheos, and Jezebel Disraeli behind him, to skin and salt whoever would raise a hand or voice against me. I'll secure the dynasty again, and everyone will be happy.

[He brings Jezebel's fingers up to his lips, fevered eyes locked onto his.]

[Jezebel's eyes grow skittish because he knows this, he knows this feeling. This has happened before, men with other faces touching him freely and making beautiful, violent promises into his ear. Leaning in too close, trailing fingers through his hair and over his face and discussing all the blood they'd spill. And he remembers what followed each time it happened, and how it was never the lovely dreams they'd so viciously promised.

In death he does what he did in life, and he stays still and frozen.]

You might not go back. You might not have to take any throne.

[Ianchus is normally acutely aware of other peoples' emotions, other peoples' boundaries, but he's too angry, the yelling from behind him drilling into his mind (it's getting fainter, but he doesn't realize that, not with his rage throttling him).

He laughs at the words, kneeling so that now he's almost imploring.]

Oh, I will. I will.

[He let goes of Jezebel's cheek to tangle his fingers in his own hair, gripping it.]

This is hell, isn't it. I will, but I'll make them regret it.

[His next laugh sounds like a cough.]

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event 003: the potions

Warning: Mentions of extreme pain

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cw mutilation talk? I'm v sorry about him

Cw: Abuse Mentions oh God Ianchus what have you done

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