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theorememes2026-01-03 07:00 am
TDM #2, arc 1.2: as she bends toward the sun
I sing for you and me
I sing across the sky
To find a place of life
Where all of this is true
I bring this into you❞
BUFF
For those who are bonded to the Fathomless, they will, one night, wake up from a startling dream in which they remembered a memory they had forgotten, or had glossed over.
DEBUFF
Bonded of the Empty Machine will experience insatiable hunger this month, and will never feel satisfied no matter how much they eat.
At first, you feel a pull. In which direction, you do not know. When a portal of shimmering black and glittering stars appears in front of you, it only seems natural to step into it. On the journey, it is as if you see everything: ancient galaxies wheeling through space, cultures born and growing and leaving their planets, lights creeping over landmasses and them winking out all at once. You see the hungry arm of a black hole, an enigmatic smile under a mirrored mask, a fist clenched tight around an endless sword. Fangs shining in starlight, bandaged feet that have traveled so many miles and still remain sturdy, and code shattering under titanium will.
And then your feet touch solid ground again, and what you have seen is suddenly hard to recall, the merest of glimpses springing to mind when you try to think back.
All you know is that you witnessed something enormous, something you probably shouldn't have seen.
As you struggle to refocus your gaze, all you see for a long moment is white. White walls, white floor. Narrow white cots lined up against a wall, screens blinking above them in tones of soothing aqua and mint. You are in a medbay — a highly advanced one, given the lack of bulky machinery — but perhaps the most eye-catching thing about the room is a long window showing endless black and twinkling stars outside.
Before you can give voice to any thoughts, a small robot flutters toward you, and perches on the back of a chair. "Hello, Wayfarer!" the birdform chirps cheerfully. "I imagine you must have many questions; allow me to enlighten you! You have fallen victim to a quantum accident and have been pulled to another universe, but the Ascendants, in their generosity, intercepted your signal and brought you here so that you did not wind up in empty space. You are aboard the Theorem of the Astral Rose; our mission is to explore uncharted space and search for the Song!"
They pause, thinking, their little blue eye aglow, and then brighten.
"Oh! Introductions are in order! I am Starling's Lament in Flight, but you may call me Starling's Lament. I am one of the Hosts of this exploration vessel; we will do everything we can to ensure a safe voyage for you. Unfortunately, at this moment, we cannot send you home. The Ascendants have indicated that their search for the Song may play some key role in doing so." They whistle a merry tune. "Please enjoy your stay! The other Wayfarers are currently on planet Epsilon-355, you may join them at any time!"
And so, you take a shuttle down to the planet; an orb of a nearly unbroken gold landmass and pale pink clouds scudding across the surface. On the journey, the pilot Host recites for you why this planet was picked: it is a possible match for a planet mentioned in a story about the Last Pilgrim, one of the most enigmatic of the Edicts. If there are scraps of the Song to be found, it may be in the path they traveled there.
PLANET TYPE: arid world
ORBITAL CHARACTERISTICS: close orbit to native sun, no eccentricities in orbit
ROTATION PERIOD: 31 hour days, 405 day year
NATURAL RESOURCES: iron-rich silicate, limonite, titanium oxides, sodium, nickel
BREATHABLILITY INDEX: safe for humanoid respiration
WEATHER PATTERNS: occasional sandstorms, very little rain
LANDMASS: 98% of planet
AVERAGE TEMPERATURE: 31c
SURFACE GRAVITY: average
BIOSIGNATURES: indicates a narrow range of native life
ARTIFICIAL STRUCTURES: none found
On-planet, activity is bustling.
Research & Archives pinpointed a clue in the story that would make finding the Last Pilgrim's trail easier to find: a pathway of bones that the caravan traveled upon. It is unknown how long this pathway is, or even if it still exists, depending on how long ago that story came from.
Science & Engineering, meanwhile, concluded that the golden sand of this planet is wholly unlike the sand of other deserts, made up of not just silicon dioxide and fossilized marine life, but of many inert chemicals and minerals, a scattered rainbow of compositions. Epsilon-355 was, they concluded, at one point the closest planet to its sun, and that has sown a strange field upon it: the golden ash and viscera of a star's fiery tempest and the powdered remains of a destroyed moon. It is, quite literally, made from stardust and moondust. The glass that litters the sands was put there by chaotic lashings of star plasma, whips of heat so intense they penetrated through the atmosphere and raised burned lines of melted sand over its surface. Luckily, the orbit of the planet has since taken it too far away from its star to do such damage again.
After long-range scans, Wayfarers were able to find signs that pointed to a large deposit of inert biological material that lay to the north-west.
As you pack up your camp, the weather is clear, and the sky is bright. For most Wayfarers, adjusting to the 31-hour cycle of Epsilon-355 has been difficult, but midday naps and staggered sleeping schedules have made it easier. The sand has proven to be a constant irritant when the breeze picks up, but the creatures largely prefer to hide, and there have been no more sightings of the barren-racers. It seems they travel only alongside the sand-whales, and the sand-whales only emerge after a storm.
With all of your supplies stocked on people's backs and the hover-sleds the Hosts have brought for easier travel, you set off to the north-west.
After the storm, the glass outcroppings had been scrubbed clear, and they still remain that way. The path north-west takes you through something of a valley, bordered on both sides by sharp juts of the glass, enormous spikes just waiting to impale anybody who sets a foot wrong. As Wayfarers move through this valley, the reflections feel like they are watching you, but you can never quite catch any coherent image in them outside of your own selves.
Until, that is, you happen to glance at another, and see a vision of something you regret. A past action you took, a decision you made, a fate you changed. It's a static image, like a photograph reflected in the glass's surface, and it does not fade when somebody else looks at it.
They all remain like specters lining the path you are taking, watching your every move.
After two days of travel, you find them.
At first, the Wayfarers find the trail of bones mentioned in the scrap of story you're following. It is just as described: a pathway of enormous bones, presumably of the last titans the story refers to. They are neatly laid in a winding pathway over and between the rolling sand dunes, bleached white by sand and time. Most of them are meters long: humerus bones three meters long lining the path like a border, rib bones twice as tall as a person creating elegant fan shapes.
On the side of the path, greater remains may occasionally be seen. Enormous titanic skeletons half-buried in the sand, watching the pathway, like they simply laid down and died as eternal sentinels.
Astute observers notice that the skulls are all pointed in the same direction, and so, that is the direction you follow, until finally, you find life.
You hear them before you see them; music and laughter carrying through the light breeze. And when the Wayfarers crest a massive dune, you look down upon a valley where there winds a serpentine path, and upon it walks a long caravan of people. You catch up to them, and as you walk alongside them to get to the front of the line in hopes of finding a leader, they all greet you warmly, like old friends that simply have not met yet.
There is a brightly painted wooden wagon with a group of old women in the back, their faces stained with red ochre, their eyes blind, and their mouths laughing. A young boy wearing red pearls leads a metal hover-craft with a pilgrim painted on the side, and a pack of young children in aquatic water-suits run with him, giggling bubbles into the water in their helmets. Young women of dark skin and magnificent wings trail in a line behind a four-legged robot, singing helio-cycle poems and carrying bowls of vivid fruit. You identify what must be the lapho-beasts from the story: huge quadrepeds built like a gorilla with hooked beaks, the size of a three-storey building, plodding along at a sedate pace, their backs lined with rolled up tents, and barrels of grain and water that sloshes with every one of their thumping steps. A small group of tall entities with featureless faces and elegant robes walk along a pair of rock-skinned hexapods. A squat creature with a head shaped like a mushroom dances alongside them all, strumming music on a long instrument that emits color and light with every note. Everywhere you look, there is music, and laughter, and celebration.
It takes a while to get to the front, but there, you meet the ringleaders of this pilgrimage. The first is a tall robotic entity with limbs as thin and straight as sticks, a narrow rectangular face, a bright red woven cloak, and a hat that resembles a dǒulì, wide and conical. Her name is Elegance, and she introduces you to her wife, Rēza, a short woman who resembles an upright moth, with large furred wings and compound eyes, her antenna waving in the breeze. The scarf around her neck and mouth is of many colors, and looks charmingly handmade, a little rough around the edges.
They tell you that this caravan has been traveling for thirty days, and they are not far from their objective. The unknown temple, they believe, lays little more than a week's travel away. Everybody you see has come here from local systems, hoping to find something in the Last Pilgrim's footsteps. Thousands of pilgrimages have been doing the same, one after the other, for eons.
Everybody, they say, finds something different. Something you did not know you needed until that very moment.
If you ask them if the Song is to be found there, Rēza laughs, and says they do not know. But perhaps, if you need it that badly, it will be what you find?
Elegance and Rēza are happy to have you travel with the caravan, and encourage you to meet with everyone. They also think it would only be appropriate for you to help with the caravan's various ventures: the story-tellers are trying to compose an epic poem to mark their trip, and the hunters are catching local flora and fauna to stretch out their rations. Or, you can join the sand skimmers, racing on their boards with brightly colored sails taking them through the dunes, scouting ahead for an oasis to seek more water.
Medical, perhaps, might be asked to help with desert-given injuries, sand rashes or injuries from the bone pathway. Engineers might be approached to help with the sand stuck in the joints of mechanical entities. Research & Archives might be pulled into hearty discussions about the story set on this planet.
When dusk begins to fall, the caravan draws to a stop, and they begin to make camp.
The Wayfarers do the same, setting up your tents and supplies. The carvan sets up in a series of circles, some small and contained to family groups, others large to hold dozens of people. Silverthorn is gathered for small fires in the middle of the circles, and many set about making dinner. Soon, the smells of smoke and dried meat fill in the air, stews bubbling with vegetables and foraged Firelight Brush roots, Speckled Runners turning slowly on spits to roast. Grain is pulled from barrels and pounded into powder on wide, flat rocks, mixed with scant water supplies to make a bread that is nonetheless fluffy and pale yellow once its dark crust has been broken open.
The caravan gladly shares their supplies with the Wayfarers with no expectation of the same in return, though it would certainly be polite. The lapho-beasts lay down so that their burdens may be taken off their backs, and slumber noisily next to the circles, curled almost entirely around some smaller ones.
Once dinner is served, the caravan turns to the members of the Theorem's crew, and begs: tell us a story.
You see, they have been traveling for a month, and they have already told each other all the stories they know. Stories from their own lives, stories that they were once told about others. Here, in this desert, the only currency worth anything is stories, and they are all eager for new ones. Is that not the domain of the Last Pilgrim? Is it not an honor in their name, to share stories of progress, of journeys, and of learning?
Children crowd around you eagerly, old men and women with sparks in their eyes lean in close, and the light-making music-playing creature of before hushes everyone, readying the crowd to listen to whatever story you choose to tell.
Or perhaps you are more content to listen as other circles share the stories they have told already, finding new details to highlight or new questions to ask. Either way, a lot of tales are being told around these fireplaces, and it would be wise to listen to them.
You spend the next week traveling.
It's not easy. On one day there is another sandstorm, and the caravan has to hunker down and wait it out. The following day is spent avoid the sand-whales and the barren-skimmers, but luckily, they don't go near the path of bones. You make friends with people in the caravan, you share stories over spiced drinks and good bread. You help where you can, and in return, the caravan shares everything they have with you.
You learn that they are here chasing a story: a rumor that visiting the temple at the end of this pilgrimage will grant them something they want. It does not cure illness or bestow riches, they say, but it gives you something you never knew you needed until that very moment. Some of the caravan have nothing besides the clothes on their backs, and some of them are wealthy, and some of them are seeking meaning. Some of them are from Alliance space, others are not.
A week later, Elegance and Rēza call the Wayfarers to the front of the caravan. You will have first honor of cresting the next row of sand dunes to catch the first glimpse of the temple. And as you scramble up the dune and peak its crest, you see it in the distance:
A long, almost mountain-like range of sand dunes, taller than any you've seen so far. Beyond them, the pale purple sky is lit up with fractal reflections in every color; atmospheric blue and x'enuda pink, the same orange as the optics of a robot family in the caravan, the gentle gold of the Theorem's shield.
Whatever is beyond that dune-range, it is giving up a spectacular light show.
They say it will take another day to get there, but for today, you will stop at an oasis. 
The presence of water has allowed tall canyons to form around its exterior, so you must descend downward to find the shady oasis. The water is a perfect aqua blue, so clear you can see the very bottoms of the shallow pools. Here, there is life different from the tough, scrubby plants you encountered among the dunes: plant-life whose roots are able to draw in water from the pools, crowded around the edges of them in small clusters of orange and red leaves, white flowers peeking out among them.
First, the caravan must take enough water to fuel itself. But after that, anybody is free to take a dip, to bathe themselves or merely to enjoy the cool water.
If you do, you'll find yourself curiously refreshed, like you've just gotten the first decent night's sleep in a while. It may even cure minor wounds, and ease the aches of travel.
Tomorrow, you will finally find the temple that the Last Pilgrim visited.
Ladon Ceto || Original Character - Established
REFLECT >> cw: blood/gun violence
✢ Reflect: Will you cover your heart when you see what I've done? ✢
Ladon doesn’t mean to look. That’s the trick of it — the glass catches him sideways, like a bad dream cutting in line. For a heartbeat he thinks it’s just his own reflection, warped and thin, but the image doesn’t move when he does. A still life of a time years ago. The moment when everything went wrong. There's a body on the floor, a young woman, her blood dark against tile, brown eyes already gone somewhere he can’t follow. And there with her is another man roughly the same age, hands wide in horror and disbelief over her corpse, his face a picture of pure despair.
It's the kind of scene he tells himself he’ll forget if he just keeps moving further forward. He swallows, adjusts his coat, and keeps his wingtips steady between the spikes. No sense letting a mirror think it’s got his number. He's unaware that someone else has seen it and has questions.
Especially as the woman appears to have been shot through the neck, and Ladon's reflection is holding a gun.
(TL;DR - There's a dead woman and her grieving partner in the reflection. A younger Ladon is also there, holding a gun in one hand.)
no subject
At the very least, he's close enough to catch sight of the bloody affair reflected in the glass. A younger Ladon Ceto (the past, he presumes), a gun in hand, the corpse of a woman, and despair. A scene of death that's more intimate than a statistic on the battlefield. When he does, his eyes widen for a few moments (death by gunshot seems so raw in a human way compared to immolation; something about leaving a cold body or dried-up husk behind is always more visceral and haunting than having one burn to ashes without any other traces), but he says and does nothing that gives away that he saw anything at all. Not until the same reflection comes up again, a few glass shard structures away, seemingly constant in its intention to unsettle or proclaim a trial for those making the trek.
Someone with more social grace would ease into things. They'd probably give Ladon a tap on the shoulder (figurative or literal) that they saw a sliver of something so personal. Unfortunately, Shion is not that elegant, so used to being on the periphery of everything and everyone that his skills at starting a conversation without suddenly manifesting himself are still wanting, so he simply asks, seemingly out of the blue.
"...Was that an accident?"
There is no judgment, no accusation in his voice laced with measured neutrality.
no subject
It's frustrating, then, to find himself face-to-face with the version of himself who probably could have kept up. Right at the point where everything went wrong.
He glances over his shoulder, relief plain on his face when he sees it’s Shion, but that expression doesn’t last. It softens, then falls away. A friendly face is witnessing one of the lowest moments of his life, and worse, Shion is one of the kids he’d hoped to spare from seeing this kind of violence.
"Not... in the way you're prob’ly thinkin'." He lifts a hand, fingers brushing the glass as if it’s a barrier between them and the real thing—his twenty-something self and the people he once ran with. "If I could take that gun outta my hand, I'd show you the chamber. It was full. Never fired it. Not even once."
Hardy was always the one who sent bullets into the ceiling when he bellowed, hands up, this is a robbery. Always needed to be the center of attention, Hardison Limael. And yet, when everything went sideways, where was he? Emptying the safe. Unaware that within the hour, their merry band of five would be cut down to two, by death, betrayal, and desertion.
"Her name was Felicity, yeah? But we called her Flick 'cause she was gonna be in the flickers someday. Girl could act. Only thing I ever knew she wasn't fakin' was how much she loved Ira.”
He taps the glass, and as if by magic—he refuses to entertain any scientific explanation—the man inside gathers the dead woman into his arms. His younger self just stands there, staring. Shaking. A moment later, he turns and shouts, HARDY! JIG'S UP, LEAVE IT!
Ladon mouths the words along with him. He's replayed this moment too many times in his mind to count.
"I knocked over banks back in my world, kid. It went right twice. Went wrong once." His voice is quieter now. "Ain’t robbed one since."
no subject
"You were fond of her," he states plainly. And Ladon wasn't the only one, of course, with the way that the man in the reflection gathers the woman's corpse up in his arms, probably from a desire to capture any trace of the life that left her body.
However, aware of the heaviness in Ladon's words, his own voice softens in turn, quieter than before. It is an invitation to lay down what's weighing on him, even if only for a moment. An offer, not an imposition.
"...How did it go wrong?"
no subject
He exhales, slow, tired. "Garevia's the only city where guns're for officers and soldiers only. Civvies don't carry. We figured that meant no return fire."
In the glass, people move like figures in a display case, looping the same doomed motions. Eventually, Ira turns. Fires. The sound still echoes somewhere behind Ladon's eyes. The plainclothes officer goes down. Dead. Ira swore later he didn't remember pulling the trigger. Ladon believes him. Some moments burn themselves in vivid color; others vanish completely, swallowed whole.
"I'd cracked the vault by then. Heard the shot. By the time I got out there..." His jaw tightens. "Flick was gone. She was our inside girl, yeah? Fake hostage. Kept the room quiet, kept eyes where we wanted 'em. That bullet was meant for Ira. She just—" A beat. "She always did what she wanted."
He watches the scene play out again, helpless to stop it. "Ira rolled on us. Can't blame him. He was starin' down a murder charge, was us or the chair. Hardy and me, we broke out. Ran for Nieve. Never looked back."
Another figure enters the glass: slicked-back red-blond hair, white suit, fury written into every step. Hardy. Ladon remembers holding him back from Ira, from the dying man on the floor. Funny thing was, that was the first time Ladon had been the calm one. The anchor.
"Silas was our driver," he adds quietly. "Saw the whole bang-up go south and vanished. Never found him. Still wonder, sometimes." A thin shrug. "Hope he took it as a sign. Did somethin' honest for a livin'."
no subject
"...Everybody was trying to make what they thought was the right choice in the moment."
In some ways, that might be one of the worst kinds of situations to reflect on and have to bear the burden of for years on end. No one clear target to point fingers and take the blame. No real closure to be had. A simple track of one action after another, like a row of dominoes falling, all pointing toward a lethal conclusion.
"If you had the chance to do it all over again, would you do things differently?"
no subject
He sighs and takes his hat off, scrubbing both hands through his hair like he might be able to erase the memory by friction alone. The frustration sits heavy in his shoulders, sharp enough that he doesn’t notice what’s been revealed: small, blunt nubs at his hairline. Horns, filed down again and again. Never gone. Just another quiet truth he lives with, the long-running lie that he’s human, and the constant reminders that he isn’t.
"If I could do it over... I wouldn't do any of it. I'd call it off. Hardy'd wanna kick my ass, 'specially if I couldn't tell 'im why, but I'd walk away."
no subject
"Even if it meant that all the time you spent in Nieve afterwards would never exist?", he asks.
That's what a do-over means, after all. Sacrificing one timeline for another. The more a crucial pivot point is tampered with, the more things change.
DEBUT >>
✢ Debut: Will you look in my eyes as I stare at the sun? ✢
Ladon learns the skimmer the way he learns most things: by watching first, hands in his coat pockets, eyes narrowed like he’s already planning for when it goes wrong. The caravan member—some sun-browned stranger with wind-tangled hair and a grin too easy for the edge of the dunes—talks him through it in a half-song, half-shout over the wind, showing him how to lean into the sail instead of fighting it, how the board wants to run if you let it.
The first push sends him skidding sideways, shoes scrambling, a sharp bark of laughter full of smoke torn out of him before he can stop it. The second goes better. Sand hisses under the board, the sail snaps and catches, and suddenly the dunes are sliding past in long, smooth curves instead of looming obstacles. It's a bit like the first time he drove a motor car, but without the messy crash at the end. It's far more his speed than his ship turned out to be.
For a few breathless seconds, there’s no weight of consequence, no past snapping at his heels—just balance, speed, and the strange, boyish thrill of trusting something that isn’t trying to kill him.
"Fuck..." He huffs when the crew finally pulls over. But he's grinning like a boy. This is more fun than he's had in some years.
(TL;DR - Sand skimmer fun!)
FIRESIDE >>
✢ Fireside: I see you falling asleep while I'm staying awake ✢
Ladon has gotten a piece of his world back.
He sits apart from the nearest fire, close enough to feel the heat but far enough that the circle of light doesn’t quite claim him, nor does the gaze of strangers. Laughter drifts across the sand in soft waves, punctuated by the rise and fall of voices telling stories meant to be shared and reshaped, but he keeps his back turned to it all, attention fixed on the faint glow wrapping around his hands. The leyline fragment hums softly, a silver-blue thread coiled around his fingers like it knows them, like it remembers him. When he rolls it between his thumb and forefinger, it sparks and sputters, light bleeding through the gaps between his fingers and painting his knuckles in ghostly, white-blue color.
It’s comforting in a way that surprises him. Not because it promises power—he’s long since learned what that costs—but because it’s familiar. A quiet constant in a universe that keeps insisting on change. He lets it stretch, then recoil, the thread responding to his touch with a gentle pull, like a tide testing an anchor. For a moment, he imagines the invisible web it belongs to, lines crossing and knotting and tangling across worlds, binding people together whether they know it or not. A massive net cast over the city of Nieve, a net he wriggled free from like a desperate fish, only to miss the company of his school.
Behind him, a story crests to laughter, applause crackling like the fire itself. Ladon exhales slowly, tucks the glow back into his palm, and closes his fist around it. He doesn't appear motivated to join any of the circles. But the fact that he's out here at all is telling. Maybe a friendly Wayfarer would succeed where he caravan members have failed to coax him out from his self-imposed exile.
(TL;DR - Ladon is playing with a leyline outside of the fire circles. Come pester him. )
no subject
But it's kinda the same end result, when it gets down to it. He did plenty of time with the Midnight Society already. Repackaged his movie plots and whatnot. Got a little antsy, got a little bored, took on a little perimeter sweep. Saw Ladon off on the outskirts playing with his glow in the dark magic string or whatever, obviously had to detour.
He doesn't try to be stealthy about walking up to stand next to him. Not much point going for stealth. ]
You okay over here?
[ We can have depression together if you want, man, that's fine. ]
no subject
Speaking of his hard nose, though, he's looking a little rougher than the last time he and Dean spoke alone. That broken nose is healing, but it's taking a bit. Longer than he's used to. But he's almost used to the sting.
He's not used to how complicated it's made smoking, though. ] Just figure I'd listen, yeah? Last time I got close I had kids askin' me too many questions. Got a hard time tellin' 'em no, but my kinda stories ain't real age appropriate.
no subject
Dean's making a mental note of that busted nose, though. He's not gonna forget it. But maybe he can work his way around to it. Be real subtle-like. Yeah. ]
What, you've never made a little somethin' up for that kid brother of yours?
GLIMPSE >>
✢ Glimpse: I hear you calling my name when you make a mistake ✢
Ladon waits until the edge of the oasis thins out, until most eyes closed for the night, before easing himself down into the water. Darkness has settled over the desert, leaving the pools and canyons in pitch black shadow in the absence of a moon. He keeps his pants on, wingtips abandoned on the stone, shirt and undershirt shrugged off with a stiffness that has nothing to do with modesty and everything to do with memory. The water is cool, a quiet shock against the desert heat, then gentle, lapping at his ribs and waist like it’s learning him by degrees. He wears the leyline tied around his neck like a chain, its shimmering light illuminating the area about him, allowing him to see what he's doing. Pale scars catch the faint ambient glow of the oasis beneath the surface—old bullet wounds puckered smooth by time, thin knife-lines that cross muscle and vanish again when the water ripples. On his shoulder, a crescent of faint marks shows where something once bit down hard and personal. Long healed, long past, but unmistakable if you know what you’re looking at: a vampire bite. He scrubs at himself with slow, methodical care, eyes half-lidded, letting the ache seep out of his bones. For a few quiet minutes under the dark sky, the desert loosens its grip, and the man shaped by violence allows himself to float in something that doesn’t want anything from him at all.
So of course, someone's going to stumble on him. He hears them before he sees them, and in one quick movement, he ducks down into the water to cover himself.
And yes. Of course he's still wearing his damn hat.
"Shit. Thought I waited long 'nough. Sorry, I'll scram out in a moment, yeah?"
(TL;DR - Ladon is bathing in the oasis. He's going to be so embarrassed to be seen. Come look. Respectfully. 👀)
no subject
Good thing, too, or he might have resorted to nicking some cooking oil and fashioning a stlengis to go scraping himself clean like he's some gladiator (or a Kremnoan living rough, as the stories say).
In the fashion of any civilized Okheman citizen (or someone who has adopted their ways), he's converted a sheet into a chiton for the sake of modesty over boxers and a sleeveless undershirt, crossing his body from one shoulder and the hem ending a hand's breadth above the knee. Over his shoulders, he's draped a towel, and even though the arid environment is already wicking the moisture from his damp hair and skin, it's clear he's already bathed - in his tent, that is, so he doesn't go getting the oasis dirty.
This late, it'll feel cold, but he's hoping it means he'll have it to himself. Bathing under starlight has a certain appeal, not the least because it'll be a welcome distraction.
Someone's already here, which isn't a problem, exactly - they can share the water in silence - but when he hears that voice, his enthusiasm cools.
"There's no need," he reassures, his voice polite but a little indifferent, "No reason we can't both swim," And he's about to go do just that - albeit once he's walked further away, but a glimpse of something makes him pause.
"...Are you still wearing your hat?"
...It's not even daytime!
no subject
He knows he has no real reason to think that. It's pure posturing, reflexive walls snapping up to cover the sudden, unwelcome spike in vulnerability. Still, he's startled enough that a thin curl of smoke slips from his mouth, and he hopes it dissipates before it raises questions. The water is nowhere near hot enough to steam, and he doesn't have any smokes on him (vapor or otherwise) to blame for it. If he plays obnoxious and prickly enough, maybe Phainon will decide distance is the more comfortable option and grant it freely.
A smaller, more irritating part of him nags anyway. Guilt, sharp and persistent. He remembers what he said the last time they crossed paths on the network, remembers that it was public, remembers that it crossed a line. He should apologize. Swallow some humble pie, smooth things over, do the right thing for once. There is only so much wrong a person can stack up before fortune's scale starts tipping against them.
Big sins are one thing. It's the little ones that pile up before you know it.
That thought dies the moment the incredulous question comes, aimed squarely at his hat.
"Yeah. What's it to ya?"
So much for smoothing things over.
no subject
Too cool for steam. Or smoke.
He hails from a world where the extraordinary sometimes stands side by side with the ordinary, where gods clash. To Phainon, what's notable is how their arrival has diminished the might of some, and presumably all; in other words, he's not alarmed.
Phainon knows it's... petty, to hold against the man what he'd done with the confidence that was neither offered nor demanded on either side. Awareness isn't enough to spur him to try to put aside his grievance, but the ideals he holds dear are. As he settles to sit in the water, having found a stone to put his back (gingerly) against, he scoops water into the cup of his marked palms to splash his own face.
Ultimately, he chooses to break the ice first, "The caravan believes they'll find something at the end of their long journey," he says conversationally, raking his damp hair away from his brow, "Think you'll find anything?"
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He is blissfully unaware of how a shadow on the water makes it look like his reflection has a set of big, black wings. If he noticed that, he would probably lose his shit.
He watches Phainon without trying to be too obvious, relieved to see he is not the only fella who stays modest even while bathing. He tenses slightly as Phainon rests against a stone, remembering the man's many wounds and how he had slept on his side to avoid lying on them. The water does not take on a golden sheen, though, so Ladon is willing to believe the glass storm injuries have healed at least somewhat.
In fact, his own face feels better than it has since he took an elbow to the nose. Maybe being in the oasis is exactly what Phainon needs. And if staying here means Phainon won't linger to soak up the water's healing properties, Ladon should probably skedaddle sooner rather than later—
Until Sunshine breaks the ice. Huh. Okay.
"Gonna be predictable and say I'm hopin' for a way home," he admits. "That or a way to get my li'l brother a message. Let 'im know I didn't abandon 'im, I ain't dead, and he did nothin' wrong, yeah?"
He takes a moment to mop at his face as well, though with considerably more care. He hisses softly when the water stings before it starts to help. "You?"
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Not that he can identify what the other man is, only that he’s different in ways that suddenly make sense of the strange and incongruously unusual statements he’s dropped here and there.
Phainon mentally tucks this into his proverbial back pocket for now.
Even if there seems to be more here than meets the eye, Ladon is still a man devoted to family, or what little remains. Phainon’s distance softens marginally.
“I, too, will hope for a happy reunion for you and your kin.”
After a pause, scooping water to spill over a shoulder with one hand, he asks, “Who did that to you?”
He knows the sound of pain when he hears it.
cw: some fun self-immolation imagery 😬
A broken nose, he tells himself, isn't real harm. It's an inconvenience. Makes smoking tricky, makes breathing sting, that's all. But that kick to the chest—the one he barely managed to block—that's another story. It could have broken one of his ribs and pushed it into one or more of his internal organs. Internal bleeding for a dragon isn't just messy, it's lethal. Puncture the furnace too and you don't bleed out. You burn.
From the inside.
Not how Ladon wants to go. Still, he’d be lying if he said the thought doesn't sit in the back of his skull now, heavy and unwelcome.
"Older fella. I'd tell you t'be careful, but I don't think he's into kickin' puppies or punchin' someone sweet as pie."
He hears it as soon as it leaves his mouth— more judgment than he meant, more edge than necessary. But it's honest, too. "Sunshine" is irony and truth all tangled together. Phainon's a decent guy. Gentle where Ladon is barbed. Friendly where Ladon keeps his doors bolted shut and trapped. And yet they both have deep, personal reasons to be closed off. Phainon just manages to do so with a smile on his face. If Ladon hadn't intruded on his dreamscape, he'd have no idea what lurked beneath the surface.
That difference chafes more than the broken nose ever could.
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It's only when it escalates that it can become a cancer that needs excising before it spreads. A lesson first taught him by Lady Goldweaver, so frequently rumored to be heartless.
This, at least, seems to have concluded in a painful lesson for Ladon, but his suggestion for why he doesn't feel a warning is warranted has him lifting his gaze and both eyebrows to look at him. Puppies? Sweet as pie?
"I see that beating has done nothing to still your wagging tongue," Phainon says dryly, returning to scooping palmfuls of water down his back, until his chiton and sash are soaked through. It might seem he's done speaking, letting that sit there between them like an unexploded bit of artillery.
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Poking at sore spots, his or someone else's, is practically a reflex.
"Speakin' of takin' a beatin'... How you healin'?"
It's not meant as a jab, even if it lands like one. The way Ladon shows concern has always been a little rough around the edges, like cleaning a wound with alcohol instead of water. It stings, but it's not cruel. He at least looks sincere about it, eyes steady, attention fully there, even if smugness clings to him the way that damn hat does: somehow always present, even when conventional wisdom says he should finally let his guard down.
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u know what, yea
Cas doesn't worry himself about Ladon's cagey behavior, and only spares the hat a glance of confusion before he lathers himself up. Not sure why Ladon is acting like that. Wasn't he bathing? That thing around his neck, though... Castiel stares, almost glaring with the intensity of it in the dark. It looks like magic, like a kind of power source if he had to guess. Not bright enough to be a soul so at least Ladon probably isn't a demon, though maybe Cas will consecrate this oasis in a minute to make sure.
yesssss come 2 me nekkid misha
"I mean, er, if you don't care then..." He's not going to vamoose if this isn't a case of some poor young dame trying to get some time alone to get clean. Not that he would vamoose far if that were the case, if only to play bodyguard and turn away any would-be bathers or Looky Lou's. Is that a scenario he's thought out? Yes. Because there are young girls here and he's a surly mobster with specific values on top of being a protective dragon deep down.
He thinks about these things.
And he overthinks being stared at, too. He hopes that his one word question will have the same impact Cas's did. "What?"