[ not real, says a voice that is not his, and viktor's eyes snap open, his head turning towards the sound — and what he sees is... he isn't entirely sure, but it is not human in the strictest sense of the word, that he is sure of. ]
Are you? [ real, he means — except the moment the words leave his mouth, he winces at how they sound. ] I am sorry, I didn't mean...
[ he looks at the way the light of the hexcore is mingling with the edges of this - specter, the wisps blending in with the purple light as if it is drawing parts of him away, and viktor swallows back a sudden bout of nausea. ]
It is not — taking you, is it? [ he looks around, eyes landing on the mirrors showing the blood, the body, and those... those are not from him, surely, which means this man is real and separate from this place, which is at once a relief (he can look at something else than the hexcore) and an entirely new terror (if the hexcore is here, can it disintegrate him, too?) and the dichotomy of emotions makes him feel a little dizzy. ]
[Ah, Octavian thinks, another apology. Really, he supposes he should blame his overall grim and pallid appearance for the way people always seem to apologize to him for asking entirely basic questions. This man, that excitable Vash person, a handful more...
It doesn't matter, not really. He hums, a quiet and almost whispered sound, gaze sliding back to the kaleidoscope of purple and blue and blood that keeps flashing across the mirrors. He needn't spend long figuring out what his contribution to this show is supposed to mean; he's bitterly ignored the slip of condemnation since he first found it upon arrival.
Still. It makes him angry, and getting angry makes him lose focus - the primary thing keeping him from being taken, by the other side or whatever this man thinks is here, whichever. He pats at his own arm like one might pat out a tiny flame, like that will help with the wisping.]
No. I am as real and as permanent as you are.
[And that kind of upsets the mirror, it looks like—more blood, the image of the body looping faster. He ignores it and watches a glowing rune-looking thing float by, in the purple-blue.]
Oh. [ it is less of a word and more of an exhale, a quiet sound of relief — though one might argue that there are more permanent states of being than viktor's current one. still, he supposes it is an apt comparison; he may not be wispy on the outside, but his body is slowly eroding away on the inside. he wonders if that makes him more or less real than the man in his company, before another swirl of runes pushes the thought away. ]
No, [ he says then, ] It is magic. Runic magic, a form of the arcane —
[ he trails off, shaking his head. ] It does not matter. It's not real.
[ behind him, in one specific mirror, there's a flash of a room, a woman standing there as she slowly disintegrates into a fine dust that spreads all over the floor. viktor, with his back on it, does not see it. instead, he aims a contemplative look at octavian. ]
What are you, then? Real and permanent, yes, [ he adds, dryly, ] But differently so than me.
[Oh, magic, fun. Not that he expected to be able to reach out and phase through the image of it in the mirror, even if it had been a portal, but magic is somewhat more interesting. He hums and cants his head to one side, looking past Viktor at the swirl of color, ignoring as pointedly as ever the way his bloody mess continues to try and get his attention over it.
It does matter, actually, because it's something he thinks is interesting, but okay—]
A ghost, [he says simply, and watches the woman in the mirror dissolve into nothing; and while they're talking about permanence, a-ha...] Not the way you think.
[Because everyone has some kind of ghost lore opinion around here, and he's learned to get ahead of being noted down as some kind of storybook scary monster that's supposed to come with a label—"vengeful ghost," "lost spirit," please—really.]
I remain solely by my own blessing, [which explains so much! Anyway,] There is a woman behind you.
[ a ghost, is it? interesting. he offers octavian something that's almost, almost a smile, the barest quirk of his lips as he says, ]
I would not assume. You are not from Piltover — you must be subject to an entirely different set of rules to anything I might conceive.
[ he says this as if it should be obvious — of course he's not going to make assumptions about something that he has no way of knowing, without having been given the right parameters. assumption is the enemy of discovery, after all. ]
You must tell me more, [ he adds, a distinctly intrigued edge to his voice — at least before octavian speaks of the woman, and viktor freezes in place. he very, very pointedly does not look behind him. ]
... Is there? I see. [ which he obviously does not, because he's equally obviously still not looking. he looks vaguely sick for a moment, even more than his normal countenance. ] I would... not pay what is shown any mind.
[Octavian blinks - and he hasn't remembered to blink much, yet, so that's extra notable - and gives Viktor a considering look instead of staring at the mirrors even longer. He wouldn't assume? That's genuinely a first, not that he's been holding it against anyone here for anything other than the time it takes to explain himself. Hm,
Interesting.
In that case,] I will ignore her.
[Totally fine by him. He shifts and turns, sweeping an arm out at the other set of mirrors, that are still looping the blood and the body on the floor. This magically-inclined stranger wants to know about him, and you know what, he's feeling more amenable about it than usual.]
Then consider mine. I was murdered and I refused to move on. This world considers that a crime.
[This last part even comes with a sneer, the sheer effort of it— Incredibly rude implications about his continued existence, thanks Aldrip.]
[ the blink doesn't escape his attention — given that he has barely done it so far, perhaps it means he doesn't need to and this is a reaction, betraying... surprise? have others heaped assumptions on him, then? not particularly surprising; people have the tendency to view everything around them through the lens of their own experiences and knowledge, after all. many don't stop and think of their preconceived notions before letting them influence their opinions.
he exhales in relief, then, though the breath drags through his lungs and makes him cough, once, twice, until he manages to swallow back the rest of them, focusing instead on the other mirrors and their content. he considers the words; the i was murdered makes his brow furrow, but the rest... ]
Short-sighted of it, [ he says after a moment. ] You do what you must. [ behind him, sky's ashes coalesce back into her human form as she looks at him, shakes her head. viktor breathes in, out. he regrets everything that happened, he regrets using the hexcore like he did, he would change it all if he could... and yet, ] If I had the option to... linger, after whatever little time I've left is over, I would choose that, too. There is too much to do.
[ too much to do, and he's achieved far, far too little. ]
[Ah, and so few people have actually understood; so many avoid the topic completely, or have an interest in the novelty, like Root; or want to shove him in a corpse to see what happens, like Fandaniel— the plainly-stated you do what you must is so... refreshing. This one is likable so far, Octavian decides; a singular passion for progress is delightful, and hopefully with fewer murders.
Well. His gaze flicks briefly to the woman while this man, well, wheezes— then away again. Fewer, he hopes, but he isn't going to ask. They can discuss his own more instead, if that would help.]
Would that I could lend you a formula. Exhausting at best. But the work continues.
[He shrugs, like, you understand— and with one of them dead and the other at death's door, with a cough like that, they do both seem to understand this particular point.
As if irritated by this, the mirror immediately behind him emits a noise like a shatter, though its surface stays smooth; an accompanying rasp of a voice shouting at the back of his head:] LEAVE.
[He looks over his shoulder, frowning. Well, okay, since it's getting wacky in here,] Did you hear it.
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expiationlogs2024-10-14 08:59 am
no subject
Are you? [ real, he means — except the moment the words leave his mouth, he winces at how they sound. ] I am sorry, I didn't mean...
[ he looks at the way the light of the hexcore is mingling with the edges of this - specter, the wisps blending in with the purple light as if it is drawing parts of him away, and viktor swallows back a sudden bout of nausea. ]
It is not — taking you, is it? [ he looks around, eyes landing on the mirrors showing the blood, the body, and those... those are not from him, surely, which means this man is real and separate from this place, which is at once a relief (he can look at something else than the hexcore) and an entirely new terror (if the hexcore is here, can it disintegrate him, too?) and the dichotomy of emotions makes him feel a little dizzy. ]
no subject
It doesn't matter, not really. He hums, a quiet and almost whispered sound, gaze sliding back to the kaleidoscope of purple and blue and blood that keeps flashing across the mirrors. He needn't spend long figuring out what his contribution to this show is supposed to mean; he's bitterly ignored the slip of condemnation since he first found it upon arrival.
Still. It makes him angry, and getting angry makes him lose focus - the primary thing keeping him from being taken, by the other side or whatever this man thinks is here, whichever. He pats at his own arm like one might pat out a tiny flame, like that will help with the wisping.]
No. I am as real and as permanent as you are.
[And that kind of upsets the mirror, it looks like—more blood, the image of the body looping faster. He ignores it and watches a glowing rune-looking thing float by, in the purple-blue.]
Is it some kind of portal.
no subject
No, [ he says then, ] It is magic. Runic magic, a form of the arcane —
[ he trails off, shaking his head. ] It does not matter. It's not real.
[ behind him, in one specific mirror, there's a flash of a room, a woman standing there as she slowly disintegrates into a fine dust that spreads all over the floor. viktor, with his back on it, does not see it. instead, he aims a contemplative look at octavian. ]
What are you, then? Real and permanent, yes, [ he adds, dryly, ] But differently so than me.
no subject
It does matter, actually, because it's something he thinks is interesting, but okay—]
A ghost, [he says simply, and watches the woman in the mirror dissolve into nothing; and while they're talking about permanence, a-ha...] Not the way you think.
[Because everyone has some kind of ghost lore opinion around here, and he's learned to get ahead of being noted down as some kind of storybook scary monster that's supposed to come with a label—"vengeful ghost," "lost spirit," please—really.]
I remain solely by my own blessing, [which explains so much! Anyway,] There is a woman behind you.
no subject
I would not assume. You are not from Piltover — you must be subject to an entirely different set of rules to anything I might conceive.
[ he says this as if it should be obvious — of course he's not going to make assumptions about something that he has no way of knowing, without having been given the right parameters. assumption is the enemy of discovery, after all. ]
You must tell me more, [ he adds, a distinctly intrigued edge to his voice — at least before octavian speaks of the woman, and viktor freezes in place. he very, very pointedly does not look behind him. ]
... Is there? I see. [ which he obviously does not, because he's equally obviously still not looking. he looks vaguely sick for a moment, even more than his normal countenance. ] I would... not pay what is shown any mind.
no subject
Interesting.
In that case,] I will ignore her.
[Totally fine by him. He shifts and turns, sweeping an arm out at the other set of mirrors, that are still looping the blood and the body on the floor. This magically-inclined stranger wants to know about him, and you know what, he's feeling more amenable about it than usual.]
Then consider mine. I was murdered and I refused to move on. This world considers that a crime.
[This last part even comes with a sneer, the sheer effort of it— Incredibly rude implications about his continued existence, thanks Aldrip.]
no subject
he exhales in relief, then, though the breath drags through his lungs and makes him cough, once, twice, until he manages to swallow back the rest of them, focusing instead on the other mirrors and their content. he considers the words; the i was murdered makes his brow furrow, but the rest... ]
Short-sighted of it, [ he says after a moment. ] You do what you must. [ behind him, sky's ashes coalesce back into her human form as she looks at him, shakes her head. viktor breathes in, out. he regrets everything that happened, he regrets using the hexcore like he did, he would change it all if he could... and yet, ] If I had the option to... linger, after whatever little time I've left is over, I would choose that, too. There is too much to do.
[ too much to do, and he's achieved far, far too little. ]
no subject
Well. His gaze flicks briefly to the woman while this man, well, wheezes— then away again. Fewer, he hopes, but he isn't going to ask. They can discuss his own more instead, if that would help.]
Would that I could lend you a formula. Exhausting at best. But the work continues.
[He shrugs, like, you understand— and with one of them dead and the other at death's door, with a cough like that, they do both seem to understand this particular point.
As if irritated by this, the mirror immediately behind him emits a noise like a shatter, though its surface stays smooth; an accompanying rasp of a voice shouting at the back of his head:] LEAVE.
[He looks over his shoulder, frowning. Well, okay, since it's getting wacky in here,] Did you hear it.