Private Isulus Return

[Nyx]

Was this what it felt like to be addicted?

–It wasn't. She wasn't.

She could stop whenever she wanted to. It was just a video game, a want, not a need and she didn't need to keep playing. It was just...she had friends in the game and she needed to check on them, she needed to Know what had happened to them after that massive fucking ant exploded. Did Creature make it out alive? What about Hayate? Zelrius? Were they safe?

She was being a good friend! She was following up. She was—

The sun was setting. And she didn't like the color of the sky: the red-orange backdrop and the thin white cotton-candy clouds overhead. Through the glass roof of the shrine, it made the world seem peaceful, even safe. But Trissayne now knew that that was a lie.

She swallows as she sits up, slowly, her eyes bouncing around the room and waiting for something, anything, to pop out and grab her. Anxiety curls in her stomach and her heart beats a quick tattoo in her ears, drying her mouth out.

...Nothing happened.

It was quiet. There was no one else around. No maiden to offer her water, no priest to welcome her back to the land of the living. In the distance, she could make out the sound of creatures that awoke at dusk, predators, and prey alike but they did not worry her. She was safe—

Another lie she tells herself.

She didn't know the goddess whose statue stood over her stone slab. She didn't want to know. She had come back to do one thing and one thing only—okay, well, no, that wasn't true.

She had a few things to do and then she was done. This game was too fucking crazy, too fucking real, and she couldn't—wouldn't—be another case on the news. Dried out with a VR headset attached to her head and vacant eyes staring at nothing beneath it. She shudders at the image, her hands lifting to her face, the meat of her palms pressing against her eyes—

The taste of mud remained on her tongue. The sound of a thousand flies skittered through her brain and she jerks back as if she's been hit. A yelp vaults from her mouth, echoing inside the small chamber.

Okay, well, no...prolonged moments of silence or reflection. Which was fine! This was a game, she was supposed to be moving and doing things. Sitting and thinking didn't get her exp, right?

A shaky laugh is the only company she has besides her thoughts. Thoughts that tumble and trip and gallop one over the other, making her head swim and then pound. She needed to get back to the starter area. She needed to find Creature and Hayate and Zelrius and she needed to give a certain duchess a piece of her mi—

She senses the magic before she's even conscious of what her body is doing. One moment, she's sitting on the stone slab, trying to pull herself together, and in the next, she's passing over the threshold of the shrine and outside wherein a stagecoach appears from a massive pool of shadows. Trissayne's eyes widen and her instinct tells her to take a step back, maybe go back inside because, whatever was coming through with that thing wasn't fucking friendly.

...But another part of her roots her to the spot and forces her to watch, to understand, to Know what is happening. Swallowing hurts, her palms itch, and her toes curl in her soft leather boots. And then the stagecoach pulls up in front of the shrine, the door swings open, and a ghost exits it.

No. Not a ghost.

"Madison?" Trissayne asks on a breathless exhale. She wavers slightly, a feeling of vertigo making the world tilt dangerously on its axis. However, she recovers as quickly as she is able. "Dat...dat be you?"

@Madison Freebird

 

[Madison Mortiere]

The gunslinger leaned back in the stagecoach, watching the hustle and bustle pass her by in wisps of cerulean. Not a single goddamn soul cared that the vehicle was careening around the camp; nor did they notice that, had it been a real carriage drawn by real horses and not a free sample of the gifts that were promised to their lone passenger, there would have been a lot more mangled bodies screaming bloody murder on the muddy earth. Her rush to get to the temple would've finished the job that the mutated insect beast and the million razor flies started.

At least the suspension system was in tip-top condition. Madison barely felt it whenever the stagecoach whipped around corners or its wheels slammed into a pothole.

Leaning back against the cushioned bench, the rubs the heels of her hands into her eyes and exhales deeply, tired, frustrated. How many more times was she going to do this? Sign her stupid ass up for these little adventures, these expeditions into near certain death? Stare down monstrosities that could erase her in six seconds, only to watch in horror as her spells fail her or her guns jam?

It's not worth it.

It was never worth it.

She could log out. Right now. Kick her headset into Lake Ontario, and never return. Not have to hear the guttural cackles of the ghosts that haunted her; not have to keep tally marks in the corner of her UI to mark how many strikes she's racked up. Her death card was clean! Somehow, the crafty little raven survived every brush with death with sheer grit, luck, and the kindness of strangers.

Others weren't so lucky.

Grim curiosity drove her to the makeshift revival temple that was set up at the base camp. The clerics kept excellent records. Many died in that crater--how many did she know this time?

To her surprise, one of them greeted her as soon as the stagecoach came to a halt outside the temple. "Yes, yes that's me." It was the woman she spent one afternoon riding with in the caravan. She looked hollow. Scared. Angry.

And still, somehow, terribly familiar.

"Trissayne, was it?" Madison's eyes drifted to the doorway over her shoulder. "Did you... fall during the battle?"

@Trissayne Lavelle

 

[Nyx]

Fall.

Fall during the battle.

Did you fall during the battle?

The buzzing is so fucking distracting that Trissayne can barely focus on the words coming out Madison's mouth. And she squints at the other woman, peers so hard at the Sheriff's lips that you'd think the Spiritmancer was deaf or at least hard of hearing. Her fingers flex and curl at her sides and she longs for one of those gnarled walking sticks or an arcane focus to hold and pin her attention on. Anything to keep her hands busy, to keep her mind busy, to take her attention off the fucking buzz—

The quiet startles her so bad that Trissayne gasps. She glances around, over Madison's shoulder and then over her own, her body wheeling around in a tight circle. Up, down, to the door of the shrine, and then back to the woman she was speaking with. The silence between them drags on and Triss realizes that she never answered the original question.

"Fell—yes. Yah. I did." She swallows, her nostrils flaring as she pushes a breath past them. Her hands wander behind her back, resting at her sacrum, the fingers of her right hand holding her left wrist. Her weight leans in the opposite direction, on her left foot, and she forces a chuckle to wander past her teeth. It grates against her tongue like nails against a chalkboard.

"Da friends dat I be wit? When we got ta da big ass monstah?" Her smile is a grimace and her eyes tear at the memory. She can hear the swarm somewhere behind her, the vibration of the wings testing the air, flexing, waiting to start up—

"Dey be leaving me," she says, pushing past the sorrow, the fear, the tears that want to choke her. She clears her throat, her hand suddenly appearing to scrape across her right eye, to clear it. She sniffles and sighs. "Just a game, right? Natta big deal." She swallows again, attempting to keep her composure while her eyes wander away, over Madison's shoulder, to the stagecoach there. "Never be knowin dat deadt be hurting...like...dat."

Dragging the back of her hand under her nose, she clears it and refocuses on Madison. The buzzing picks up, the low hum singing through her bones and making her vibrate, making her stomach clench and her nails press crescent moons into the meat of her palms—

"Do ya tink ya can be takin me—ahem—back ta, ah, Western Brisshal? I be having a bone ta pick wit a certain woman dere."

@Madison Freebird

 

[Madison Mortiere]

"Yeah... It's... Just a game." Madison's lips pursed into a thin frown. Just a game--when I watched one of my friends die twice not ten feet in front of me and get locked forevermore into this stupid, stupid "game."

It felt weird trying to comfort this stranger. What could she offer her, really? The elf had clearly been through the wringer, and the wounds haven't yet begun to scar over. Would a pat on the back and a "there, there" be worth anything? An awkward hug, perhaps? Or even just offer up a handkerchief for Trissayne to dry her eyes with?

Everything felt so hollow and patronizing to someone who suffered such trauma.

"A game that's too real for its own good," she found herself muttering underneath her breath.

The honesty caught her by surprise. Hoping that the elf neither noticed nor responded, Madison quickly rested a hand on her back and guided her back towards the ghostly carriage. "Yes--yes, I can do that. Let's go. Getting out away from this camp will do you a world of good."

Madison looked up at the driver in the wide-brimmed hat. "Carol, we need to get the hell out of here."

"My pleasure," they said, touching the brim of their hat with a bony finger. "Where to?"

"Western Brisshal."

"Can do. Hop aboard, and we'll hit the road."

The stagecoach itself was comfortable enough. The dip into the black and neon blue desolation that followed--Madison had a feeling she was never going to not get the jibblies from it. But once they had settled into their ride in the near-afterlife, the raven allowed herself to relax. Slouch a bit. Spread out.

Because, fuck; did they need a reprieve after these hellish last couple of days.

Madison turned her head to look at Triss. "I am sorry," she said. "That you went through that."

@Trissayne Lavelle

 

[Nyx]

She was sorry.

There's five minutes of complete silence as Trissayne sits there across from Madison and stares listlessly out the window. It's apparent that there is a lot going on inside her head—she nibbles incessantly on her bottom lip, her right leg continuously bounces, and the fingers attached to the hand resting atop that knee beat out a tattoo that has no rhyme or reason. But Trissayne does not say anything. And she winces, she drops her gaze and then lifts to the shifting landscape that they whiz past, all while sighing or scoffing to herself, but words do not manifest.

Until, they do.

"It not a game," she whispers, the words barely heard over the creaking and rocking of the stagecoach. An errant tear attempts to escape down her cheek, but she lifts her hand and swipes it away before it has a chance to fulfill its destiny. "Oh, maybe it is. I dunno. But I be feeling my heart stop, be feeling my lungs choke for even a little breadt." She sucks in a breath as soon as the words part her lips and her attention swings slowly to Madison where it settles with an uneasy weight.

"Not you ta be sorry. Is dis...place. Is...whoever made dis game again." She forces herself to sit straight, to continue looking at the woman across from her, and feeling this...odd connection between them that she didn't understand and couldn't explain. Her brow even furrows. "What ya be doing out dis way, anyway?"

@Madison Freebird