[Octavian looks towards the other figure, if only to have something to look at. They don't keep his attention for very long though, given the, hm, gentle manhandling from the thing that is bad to listen to.
He looks up? Maybe up is an appropriate direction for polite eye contact.]
Not particularly. I have no problem with death itself. The barrier does not bother me. I intend only to cross it.
[The figure, such as it is, lifts its head somewhat, as if to turn its own attention towards the phantom through its haze of misery. The entity pays it no mind, fully focusing its multi-aspected interest on Octavian as it seeks answers.]
And yet, by crossing it... you open the door for others. Or do you intend to hoard such knowledge for yourself alone...?
[An interesting question, and he shuts his eyes to consider it. After a moment he finally drops his hands from over his ears; it's not, like, doing anything about the awful noise, so whatever.]
Other people are not my responsibility.
[His work is a fundamentally selfish work, after all, and it always has been - it was always intended to be. In that way he doesn't honestly care if others make use of it—but if he considers, hm, the possibility of misuse...]
But if I have only your two options... Then yes, I intend to hoard it.
[The voices laugh, cackling like the breaking of glass, the sense of the very sound scraping and tearing at the nonexistent walls. The other dreamer puts its hands over the space where its own ears must be, cringing and drawing inward.]
Oh, you all are so fun. Thinking of yourself as so special, so deserving. Silly little creature.
[For a split second the jumping, staticlike energy gives the impression of a single enormous eye peering at Octavian—but the afterimage lasts far longer than anything he might have actually seen.]
If only this prison were not so small... I would love to watch you defy the natural order, just for your single, tiny life.
[Oh, that's dreadful, that's Octavian's hands going back over his ears too, with a slight wince. He sways for a moment in place before simply sitting down on the... floor... or what passes for a floor, like being down there will, again, help him get away from all the scraping and shrieking sounds.]
Fascinating, [he says, in the tone of a man who is perhaps intrigued, but not really fascinated. Not yet, anyway. Then,]
It would not be exciting to watch until the very last moment.
[It speaks as if of an inferior thing they're nonetheless fond of—like an adorable animal that's just too foolish for its own good.]
Every adjustment, every which way you turn it in your spectral head... all the failures... they are just as entertaining to me as the success.
[The entity lowers its voices, as if trying to make itself slightly more bearable for Octavian; the other figure seems to lose some of the rigid tension in its demeanor, though it still doesn't relax.]
Perhaps for that enjoyment... I might offer you a sliver of my power.
[Octavian considers, lowering his hands again after a moment when it seems for now that the sound is less awful to listen to. The condescension is noted, of course, he is listening, but he likes to think of himself as too dead to insult so easily.]
For what purpose?
[He glances sidelong at the other figure; that person doesn't seem all that content with whatever Faustian bargain they'd made.]
You think yourself capable of escaping Death under your own power?
[Its voices echo in a giddy chuckle, not quite so grating as the last, but it seems to move closer, its swirling energy slowing as sparks blink around Octavian. He is being Observed.]
Even if you do, do you think you can escape the consequences alone? Beings greater than you are not likely to ignore such a feat.
[Then finally, another singular whisper, separate from the entity:]
[Ah— well, there's something to look at, anyway. Octavian tries to track a few of those sparks, halfway expecting them to form into something he can properly see... but apparently not.
He glances over at the other figure; was that them? Please, this is fine.]
Then they are misusing their all-important free time. [If they even exist, he doesn't add; better not make this one fussy.] You so very badly want for me to make a deal. I wonder. What am I to you? Greedy? Or a fool?
Both, of course. Humans are always full of so many flaws and contradictions. That's why I let you wander about for so long.
[The voices' tones make it clear this being apparently enjoys the idea, for whatever reason.
But it wasn't for Octavian's sake that the figure spoke up initially—and it does once again, voice distorted through the space before the sound reaches the ghost.]
Shut up!
[The figure lifts its head, gleaming points of yellow blazing as a rageful gaze fixating on the space where the many-voiced entity might hover over them.]
I only agree to free you to stop this madness. Did you not decide your games were over ten years ago?!
[But the figure shudders as it feels the caress of the Spirit brushing over it and it answers.]
So testy, my little Onyx. Is a jest with a rare guest such a crime? Should we not enjoy ourselves for the short time we have left?
[Oh, the other one is properly upset now, that's interesting. Octavian closes his mouth over whatever quip back about humans he was about to make, turning his head to watch the other figure argue with nothing. Should he go...? Is he even able to go? Hmm.]
Hello. [He lifts a hand. Hi, person who is participating at last.] Worry not. Your chatty headache cannot persuade me of anything.
[After a moment of quiet laughter echoing and scratching at the edges of the dream:]
That's what this one said, too. Once upon a time.
[The figure clenches his fists, tense, as he recalls the shared history. A drawn out fight. The war won, but so many battles lost. So many lives ended, most of all hers.]
I was fooled. We all were... it wasn't worth it...
[Even if Octavian had been completely invisible in the darkness of the space, the way Chaos spoke made it clear enough:]
You—how did you die?
[Manners? Please. He's a desperate man on the edge of a cliff, mind trapped in a swirling void with one of the beings that ruined his life. A ghost's feelings are the last thing he cares about.]
[Octavian hums lightly; that sounds like a skill issue, but luckily no one has taught him that phrase yet, so he can only make little judgmental sounds. Either way, he's confident in his ability to say no to overbearing... entities. He thinks he's doing great so far.]
Why? I was murdered. My skull crushed.
[Does that matter? Why does that matter. Please share.]
[Like, it's very simple, and he honestly assumes vengeance is implied and so doesn't mention it specifically. He just wants to get back to work, why is this hard for living people to understand--]
"Allowed." Please. No cosmic force hit me in the head. Only a man.
[Skill issue, again, if this person can't understand the beautiful gravity of discovery— although Octavian would absolutely defeat death to finish a knitting project, too, if he had that kind of hobby. Details.]
We all die. I will do so on my own terms. To succumb to the paralysis of fear is the real death.
Why should you be the only one to get to choose...?
[It's a rhetorical question, half whispered. There is no good answer, nothing that would convince him that Octavian's path is correct in any sense. Nor does he think the suffering left in the ghost's wake will be worth whatever discovery or success he achieves. There are consequences to breaking the laws of nature after all, though he's only been witness to a few of them, and not in regards to overcoming death.
Beyond that—why him, and not her? How could that ever be fair?]
I will hesitate no longer. [Paralysis. As though accepting a proper rest, the embrace of emptiness, could be akin to a flaw. But for now he is here and alive despite everything, driven forward by anger and grief, and he will do what must be done until his time comes.
The figure lifts its yellow gaze to the swirl of energy hovering over and around them, observing them with interest.] Chaos.
[Blandly said, because he neither knows nor particularly cares what this figure's problem is with it. The thing--Chaos--too, from what it was talking about before. Why should he be personally responsible for anyone's life or lack thereof but his own? The discoveries are there to be made by anyone, after all.
But whatever. Things are happening. He looks up in turn, though he's not sure where precisely he should be looking.]
[Sparks flicker towards the figure's outstretched hand: promises of connection that draw light out of its shrouded form, only to be snuffed.]
With your power and mine, we will tear apart the seal keeping you here...
[The singular voice joins with the many:]
And everything else.
[The dream cracks—shifted sideways and askew, a mind broken by a vow that can't be taken back with a being that never intended to leave him in one piece. But still, there remain large enough pieces to hold onto, the dream not collapsing just yet.
The figure disappears, such as it was ever perceptible in the first place, its edges no longer discernible through the shifting flow of power. A scream crashes through the fragments.]
[Oh, that's not very reassuring. Octavian steps back and looks around, like perhaps a convenient door with an EXIT sign will pop up just for him, but no-- in the absence of anything better to do he takes another step and then simply gets knocked down by the shifting of the dream. Being on, hm, the floor? Whatever passes for floor, now? Being down feels the slightest fraction safer than being an upright target for whatever is going on, so.
He'll stay down here, arms covering his head. And he doubts he has to raise his voice and so doesn't, simply speaking out into the collapsing nightmare:] Hypocrite.
[Destroying everything? At least Octavian only ever intended to inconvenience himself with his little goals.]
[The echo of the scream is still reverberating when that pair of gleaming yellow eyes reappears, looking down (or up?) upon Octavian's attempt to steady himself in the ever-moving space. There's intent in them now, fixated on the ghost. Its unsteady outline sweeps off of it like a flickering cape and a pair of horns.
The voices proclaim their judgment:]
Your time has long passed, phantom.
[This entity, whoever or whatever it is now, will not have any trouble grasping Octavian should it get its claws into him—and it reaches for him now. Breaking souls into pieces is one of its many abilities.]
[Ah, well, if that isn't a warning to get out of there he doesn't know what is. Even if he can't see anything coming for him, those words are pretty clear. He doesn't like to do this but he likes being threatened less, so as the entity-figure-whatever reaches for him he lets himself fade, just enough to be intangible.
Well, he thinks so— this being a dream may not operate on the same logic, but he's... more slippery than usual, at the very least.
And crawling his way towards something else to grab onto...]
Idiot, [that's for the figure, for allowing this to happen.] You are too small to realize this is fruitless.
[Chaos and its pawns never had trouble taking hold of the ethereal, although the dream appears to be helping Octavian to some extent by allowing him to slip free. A sharp white grin appears as it mockingly answers:]
I won't let the fear of failure paralyze me.
[Perhaps the ghost won't easily stay within that grasp, but he'll nevertheless feel an unpleasant sensation of being eaten away where touched—like acid applied directly to the spiritual equivalent of his skin. It won't leave a lasting mark, but it can certainly hurt.]
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expiationlogs2025-01-13 12:39 pm
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A lost soul...
[Octavian will get the sense of that energy brushing against him, around him, as if examining an insect in its hands.]
Do you not seek to break down the barriers between life and death? Such restrictions, I find... tragic.
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He looks up? Maybe up is an appropriate direction for polite eye contact.]
Not particularly. I have no problem with death itself. The barrier does not bother me. I intend only to cross it.
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And yet, by crossing it... you open the door for others. Or do you intend to hoard such knowledge for yourself alone...?
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Other people are not my responsibility.
[His work is a fundamentally selfish work, after all, and it always has been - it was always intended to be. In that way he doesn't honestly care if others make use of it—but if he considers, hm, the possibility of misuse...]
But if I have only your two options... Then yes, I intend to hoard it.
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Oh, you all are so fun. Thinking of yourself as so special, so deserving. Silly little creature.
[For a split second the jumping, staticlike energy gives the impression of a single enormous eye peering at Octavian—but the afterimage lasts far longer than anything he might have actually seen.]
If only this prison were not so small... I would love to watch you defy the natural order, just for your single, tiny life.
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Fascinating, [he says, in the tone of a man who is perhaps intrigued, but not really fascinated. Not yet, anyway. Then,]
It would not be exciting to watch until the very last moment.
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[It speaks as if of an inferior thing they're nonetheless fond of—like an adorable animal that's just too foolish for its own good.]
Every adjustment, every which way you turn it in your spectral head... all the failures... they are just as entertaining to me as the success.
[The entity lowers its voices, as if trying to make itself slightly more bearable for Octavian; the other figure seems to lose some of the rigid tension in its demeanor, though it still doesn't relax.]
Perhaps for that enjoyment... I might offer you a sliver of my power.
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For what purpose?
[He glances sidelong at the other figure; that person doesn't seem all that content with whatever Faustian bargain they'd made.]
I seek no strange patrons.
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[Its voices echo in a giddy chuckle, not quite so grating as the last, but it seems to move closer, its swirling energy slowing as sparks blink around Octavian. He is being Observed.]
Even if you do, do you think you can escape the consequences alone? Beings greater than you are not likely to ignore such a feat.
[Then finally, another singular whisper, separate from the entity:]
Stop.
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He glances over at the other figure; was that them? Please, this is fine.]
Then they are misusing their all-important free time. [If they even exist, he doesn't add; better not make this one fussy.] You so very badly want for me to make a deal. I wonder. What am I to you? Greedy? Or a fool?
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[The voices' tones make it clear this being apparently enjoys the idea, for whatever reason.
But it wasn't for Octavian's sake that the figure spoke up initially—and it does once again, voice distorted through the space before the sound reaches the ghost.]
Shut up!
[The figure lifts its head, gleaming points of yellow blazing as a rageful gaze fixating on the space where the many-voiced entity might hover over them.]
I only agree to free you to stop this madness. Did you not decide your games were over ten years ago?!
[But the figure shudders as it feels the caress of the Spirit brushing over it and it answers.]
So testy, my little Onyx. Is a jest with a rare guest such a crime? Should we not enjoy ourselves for the short time we have left?
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Hello. [He lifts a hand. Hi, person who is participating at last.] Worry not. Your chatty headache cannot persuade me of anything.
[Well, probably.]
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That's what this one said, too. Once upon a time.
[The figure clenches his fists, tense, as he recalls the shared history. A drawn out fight. The war won, but so many battles lost. So many lives ended, most of all hers.]
I was fooled. We all were... it wasn't worth it...
[Even if Octavian had been completely invisible in the darkness of the space, the way Chaos spoke made it clear enough:]
You—how did you die?
[Manners? Please. He's a desperate man on the edge of a cliff, mind trapped in a swirling void with one of the beings that ruined his life. A ghost's feelings are the last thing he cares about.]
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Why? I was murdered. My skull crushed.
[Does that matter? Why does that matter. Please share.]
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What would you even gain from returning to a world that allowed such an injustice?
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[Like, it's very simple, and he honestly assumes vengeance is implied and so doesn't mention it specifically. He just wants to get back to work, why is this hard for living people to understand--]
"Allowed." Please. No cosmic force hit me in the head. Only a man.
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Your projects.
[Flatly; almost disbelieving. And yet in a twisted way it makes sense to him. Arrogant, selfish, pointless—like everything else.]
That's it. You'd suffer through another death for your projects...?
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[Skill issue, again, if this person can't understand the beautiful gravity of discovery— although Octavian would absolutely defeat death to finish a knitting project, too, if he had that kind of hobby. Details.]
We all die. I will do so on my own terms. To succumb to the paralysis of fear is the real death.
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[It's a rhetorical question, half whispered. There is no good answer, nothing that would convince him that Octavian's path is correct in any sense. Nor does he think the suffering left in the ghost's wake will be worth whatever discovery or success he achieves. There are consequences to breaking the laws of nature after all, though he's only been witness to a few of them, and not in regards to overcoming death.
Beyond that—why him, and not her? How could that ever be fair?]
I will hesitate no longer. [Paralysis. As though accepting a proper rest, the embrace of emptiness, could be akin to a flaw. But for now he is here and alive despite everything, driven forward by anger and grief, and he will do what must be done until his time comes.
The figure lifts its yellow gaze to the swirl of energy hovering over and around them, observing them with interest.] Chaos.
Are you ready at last?
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[Blandly said, because he neither knows nor particularly cares what this figure's problem is with it. The thing--Chaos--too, from what it was talking about before. Why should he be personally responsible for anyone's life or lack thereof but his own? The discoveries are there to be made by anyone, after all.
But whatever. Things are happening. He looks up in turn, though he's not sure where precisely he should be looking.]
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With your power and mine, we will tear apart the seal keeping you here...
[The singular voice joins with the many:]
And everything else.
[The dream cracks—shifted sideways and askew, a mind broken by a vow that can't be taken back with a being that never intended to leave him in one piece. But still, there remain large enough pieces to hold onto, the dream not collapsing just yet.
The figure disappears, such as it was ever perceptible in the first place, its edges no longer discernible through the shifting flow of power. A scream crashes through the fragments.]
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He'll stay down here, arms covering his head. And he doubts he has to raise his voice and so doesn't, simply speaking out into the collapsing nightmare:] Hypocrite.
[Destroying everything? At least Octavian only ever intended to inconvenience himself with his little goals.]
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The voices proclaim their judgment:]
Your time has long passed, phantom.
[This entity, whoever or whatever it is now, will not have any trouble grasping Octavian should it get its claws into him—and it reaches for him now. Breaking souls into pieces is one of its many abilities.]
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Well, he thinks so— this being a dream may not operate on the same logic, but he's... more slippery than usual, at the very least.
And crawling his way towards something else to grab onto...]
Idiot, [that's for the figure, for allowing this to happen.] You are too small to realize this is fruitless.
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I won't let the fear of failure paralyze me.
[Perhaps the ghost won't easily stay within that grasp, but he'll nevertheless feel an unpleasant sensation of being eaten away where touched—like acid applied directly to the spiritual equivalent of his skin. It won't leave a lasting mark, but it can certainly hurt.]
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