TDM #2, arc 1.2: as she bends toward the sun

[lamentus]

❝I sing this to be free
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

REFLECT

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.

DEBUT

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.

FIRESIDE

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.

GLIMPSE

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.

(CODE)

Comments

Deimos ★ Starfighter ★ new player, oops all wildcards

[lapmouse]

 
arrival;

[ Small mercies for someone who doesn't want to be noticed: the majority of the Wayfarers being planetside means fewer people left onboard the Theorem for Deimos to try to avoid while he gets his bearings. He probably looks shady as hell skulking around the ship's interior, suspicious enough to still cast a glance over his shoulder every now and then despite the guarded (maybe paranoid) attention he's paying to his surroundings.

It's not until he gets to the upper deck that his guard drops a bit, washed out into the (awful, comforting) vastness of the surrounding space. Though he doesn't linger here much longer than anywhere else, the momentary tranquility of it helps cool his agitated nerves.

Later, tucked into the shadows of a Void Runner with a datapad and newly packed supplies for the mission ahead, he might just manage to keep himself too busy for any overwhelming sense of uncertainty to take hold of him. For now, regardless of his feelings, he has a job to do; when he eventually joins the other Wayfarers on the shuttle down to the planet, he'll have his shit together like a good little soldier. ]
 

for blyat xoxo;

[ Enough distractions here—weirdos from other worlds and bustle from hauling supplies around—that if Deimos were really lucky, he could probably keep himself just peripheral enough to be nothing more than an itch at Cain's fighter instinct for a while longer. But he's not really lucky.

He's not even looking when Cain spots him, at first, a familiar pipsqueak whose supply shop civvies aren't all that different from the last time Cain saw him working under the Equinox. If he vanished now maybe he could've even been a phantom, except that there's a healthy colour in his skin brought out by the natural sunlight, and a rifle strapped to his pack that indicates a security designation, and he doesn't actually vanish.

Though it's hard to say that's not for lack of trying. His reaction is pretty telling in the instant his gaze snaps aside to find Cain stalking toward him: the oh, shit couldn't possibly be read more clearly on his face before he books it in the other direction. ]
 

reflect - debut - fireside;

[ At least one of these new Wayfarers isn't very sociable. That's probably the first thing anyone notices about him, if they notice him. Deimos doesn't talk. At the very most he answers questions put to him with a voice that's not much more than a rough whisper, so more often than not he falls into the orbit of people who either don't mind the quiet or do the talking for him.

That doesn't mean he isn't useful.

He pays as much attention to the people he's traveling with as he does the desert around them, maybe offers a hand when it looks like one of them is pushing themselves too much even if they haven't asked for it. A flask of water, a nudge toward a path with better footing, a second shadow if someone's curiosity begins to distance them from the group.

Hypocritically, it's only when they join the caravan that he himself relaxes—grateful for the opportunity to disappear into a moving crowd. Inevitably he'll cross paths again with another Wayfarer, roped into some mundane task assisting the pilgrims, or offering a hand up onto a skimmer to scout ahead or hunt and gather resources for dinner...

...or making desperate, pleading eye contact as he's pulled into a circle of complete strangers urging him to share a story. Save him. ]
 

oasis;

[ Deimos has a certain fastidiousness about him, another bit of insight to glean from a couple of weeks of camping together. Part of it is military efficiency—he keeps his rifle clean and his pack within reach like his life depends on them (because it does)—and part of it isn't.

When he finally does get into the water, he doesn't venture far from the edge: a spot he's ultimately picked because it has a shallow incline in the shade where he can use his pack as a makeshift pillow while still staying partially submerged.

He might just be dozing off here, actually. ]
 

fireside ☺️ welcome omgggggggg

[coherer]

( Jesus, not another one. So many introverts have fallen prey to Caravaneer Yazat's aggressive hospitality, and as much as he's tried to talk him into choosing only those actively engaged in storytime, the robot refuses to listen.

So, when Deimos makes pleading eye contact with him, he jolts upright, shoving his mask—lovingly created by hand with Yazat's steady assistance from an old shell—up onto his forehead. )

Oh, uh... Hey, uh... you! I've been looking for you everywhere, man!

( Why is he making up his own sign language on the critical buzz words in this sad act of solidarity? Well, often unable to reach a deeper plane of thought than surficial, Jonas decides this is the best way to get Deimos out of an unwelcome situation.

He quickly rises and goes to him, arms extended so that he can take him by the shoulders, before the crowd can consume him entirely. )

Sorry, he's... he's stone deaf. Can't hear a word you're saying. Oh, and—Terrible storyteller. Mute, too. Completely.

who is this dweeb i love him already

[lapmouse]

[ Many times in his life Deimos has silently begged someone to rescue him from an awkward social situation. As Jonas jumps up into a nonsensical, gesticulating heroic performance, he can't help but think: this is probably the stupidest anyone has ever done it.

But what matters is that it works. The pressure of the group's attention fractures and then breaks in different directions, toward Jonas and each other, and Deimos has to swallow an urge to laugh for the sake of the eyes that are still on him when one of the pilgrims begins to question those claims and is swiftly chided by another for being insensitive.

Jonas may still have some difficulty extricating himself without being called to weigh in on the budding debate, but he'll find that despite their firm tension the shoulders beneath his hands meld easily into his guidance. A little bit of weight leaning into it, like a trust fall, as Deimos looks up at him with barely contained amusement.

Before raising a gloved hand to his face and flicking it away in a crude but legitimate sign of thanks. ]

he's your new best friend baybeeeeeeee🥰

[coherer]

( "Barely contained amusement" gives Jonas plenty to work with. And what a relief; there's no drama here, just a funny situation they've gotten themselves into together with a very clear way out. As the caravaners bicker, he offers Deimos a wink of solidarity.

We got this, bro.

Deimos' cooperative lean back makes it easier for Jonas to "fuss" over his "deaf," "mute" friend, turning with him to effectively obscure the shorter man. Having a few inches on him, in the large cloak gifted to him by Yazat and the people arguing, he adopts a hands-on-hips pose to flare the wine-red fabric out to further conceal Deimos. )

So, uh, yeah. He's heading back to camp, but hey, this is actually, like, a cool, new story for you guys to tell, right? ( ... ) Like, how embarrassing you all are.

( More protests erupt among the Epsilon-355 natives, and one of the young women in the crowd covers the eyeholes of her mask in shame. )

Okay, let's—We should go, ( he stage-whispers back at Deimos. )

gl! it may be a tournament of one but the competition is brutallll

[lapmouse]

[ Jonas doesn't have to tell him twice. In fact, he doesn't even have to tell him once. The effort of "fussing" over his "deaf", "mute" "friend" has led them to the edge of the circle in no time, and Deimos doesn't hesitate to take advantage of the space and cover created by the interposing body to duck through that last gap to freedom in the moments between those hands leaving him and the whisper that follows.

Lol bye.

Of course, he won't be that difficult to tag along with as he shifts the weight of his satchel and continues in the direction he'd been heading when he got pulled into the firelight—but he's really not great company. Why would Jonas do that to himself? ]

oasis

[precocity]

[ lingering by the water has been ideal for all sorts of things, including observing other people who drop by—izaya would say not for nefarious reasons even if no one has accused him of anything. honestly, it is a bit of a novelty to not be the target of vending machines on the daily.

that said, it is still incredibly weird and creepy to be studying people while they are trying to enjoy fishing, a swim, or in this case: a comfortable doze. izaya reasons that getting back up is much harder to do than to just take advantage of re-enacting the life of an oasis crytid until further notice.

he waits until the stranger seems relaxed enough and then, using a stick as a crutch, he makes a very noisy shuffle-walk in that direction. surely that would wake him up, yes? ]

sickos voice yes haha yes

[lapmouse]

[ Game recognizes game. It falls to the weird and creepy people watchers to keep an eye on each other as much as, if not more than, anyone else.

This one is usually elusive, the kind that'd never get caught resting out in the open, and that's technically still true. However relaxed he seems in the moment, that sudden escalation of noise injects an instant tension into the entirety of his body: a sharp stillness that confirms he isn't sleeping even before an eye cracks open and his head turns slowly to track its source.

Wary as an animal pressed flat against the warm stone. I see you. ]

i have now read deimos' canon so kekeke

[precocity]

[ creepers be creeping.

it is obvious that the other is fake-sleeping now and izaya cackles, all pretence of silence now tossed aside as he makes to take a comfortable spot nearby but not too near.

a grin, like a slashed moon, and izaya points to his eyes and then points to deimos'; an adequate greeting. and i see you. what a fun new guy, izaya suddenly feels the rest of his thoughts slough away as he has found his newest entertainment.

RIP]

two rabbits flopping next to each other dot gif

[lapmouse]

[ Suspicious as fuck behaviour. That loud laugh and the too-friendly way the other smiles and settles down deliberately just outside the perimeter of what most people would consider an encroachment on their personal space is setting off one grating alarm after another, but Deimos is used to dealing with that discomfort.

There's a pause as he takes that greeting in, the raised hackles in his demeanour almost but not quite subsiding into something wide-eyed and curious, before he nods his chin in acknowledgement.

Sure. This might as well happen. ]

my prompt 💙

[blyat]

[At first he thinks he's hallucinating.

The desert must be getting to him — there's enough of an excuse to be found in the environment they're traversing, endless sand in every direction and a hot, oppressive sun overhead. It's just a glimpse at first. No more than a shadow in the corner of his eye, one he got so used to seeing before that it's shocking now, something very wrong. Maybe he's paranoid. Leaving their original base camp was an ordeal only worsened by bruised ribs and a busted face; he's not in a good mood, so of course he'd be seeing shit like this.

But then he checks the Security log, and he spots another name on the list that feels like ice in his blood. Deimos. Right there at the bottom, not a common name. Enlisted, apparently, at some point very recently. Cain didn't even fucking know new people were being recruited — when did it happen? Why? Shouldn't there have been some announcement? Sure, he's seen some unfamiliar faces, but this...

Paranoia no longer unfounded, he goes on the hunt. Deimos may be talented at evasion, but Cain is like a dog on the scent, and there aren't exactly a lot of places to hide in the desert. It isn't long before he sights that dark head of hair and slight figure, reads the expression on his face, sees him try to fucking run... but he's not getting away. Cain's right on his heels, shouting.]

Hey! Get back here!

🖤 bless this mess

[lapmouse]

[ Running was a bad idea. He's aware of that almost as soon as he starts moving: there's nowhere to go in a bunch of open desert that couldn't be followed, and even if he did manage to hide he'd eventually have to slink back to their small camp. With a pissed-off Cain waiting for him.

Still, it hadn't been an incorrect impulse. The question left is whether he wants to take his licks for running, for hiding, (for everything before that?) in front of a potential audience or out in the barrens where no one would notice if he never came back, and the answer to that one is obvious.

So no, he's not going to get back here. Doesn't make the chase easy, either, darting between another pair of travelers and skidding through the sand under one of the sleds to force some obstacles between them before there aren't any obstacles left. If Cain pushes it he could probably pounce Deimos, but why bother?

It won't be long before he ends up with his back to an outcropping, breaths heaving and sweat tacking his hair to the skin of his forehead, his hands held up in surrender and the full expectation that there's a punch coming. ]

debut

[demandsatisfaction]

[In only a very short time of being in this land, on this planet, Lilias has found herself developing into a bit of a passenger princess. Hailing from a country where the only vehicles around were pulled by animals or propelled by the wind, she has no understanding of how to operate conveyances that are complex and self-propelled, and she has therefore been riding along for several days on shuttles, sleds, sand-skimmers, and anything else that might take passengers on this journey.

Unfortunately for her pride, she cannot simply walk instead. Despite the support of the leg brace supplied to her in the Theorem’s med bay, her strength and stamina are not sufficient for hours of trekking across sandy, unstable surfaces. If she wants to travel anywhere at all, she will need a vehicle. And that means she will need a driver.

But it is not until she has secured a rather taciturn driver for the sand-skimmer she’s been eyeing, not until they are both about to climb into it, that she pounces with another demand.]

Please show me how to drive this contraption.

oasis, i am so sorry please don't drop my thread

[fessus]

[ In the great struggle of man versus fish, there are many rules.

Know your enemy. Know yourself. Understand the limits of your own psyche just as devotedly as you're intimate with the knowledge of your tackle. Give no quarter. Abandon the disadvantageous and chase everything else. In other words, too many things for him to maintain in his brain all at once, which is likely why when he's fishing, Noctis is nothing but devoted to his craft. He is honed in on what is likely his greatest battle of the day, familiar enough with this particular pool to realize most of the fish he's facing are small fries, but apparently a king reigns in every land. ]

Tch–! [ A last sound of frustration at the tailend of his skirmish has him yanking that rod as hard as he can, fish sailing from the surface at the same time as it jumps for freedom. Where great force meets a sudden lack of resistance, there exists a burst in movement.

Right towards an innocently dozing man.

The fish slaps Deimos right in the face, a man Noctis hadn't even seen on account of his hyperfixation, and a feeble panic response has him dropping that rod altogether with a curse. ]

Hey– Sorry, just grab it real quick, hurry–!