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[littlesoul]

[River is settled on the roof of the castle, her journal opened up in front of her. She's staring at it for a long time before she begins to write, her letters lacking the panic and scribbling manner they had during her other journal entry.

Tell me a story.

{It's a simple request, one that might even seem childish to anyone who isn't her. She knows what she's looking for though, knows that she needs something to block out the noise in her head.

See, it's loud today. Louder tan she'd like. The world feels like it's crashing in on her, hence why she's outside, under the sky.

It's safer under the stars than it is with a roof over your head. If she can't be in the sky, she can at least have it blanketing her.]

Comments

[lightbranded]

I don't know if you would find my stories interesting, but I could sing you a song if you like.

[foolreversed]

What kind of story?

[fantasies]

Do you know fairy tales?

[silentrunning]

[Chell writes a message back.]

I'm not so good at telling stories...I've never told one. But I'd try. What kind would you like?

hope you don't mind company

[originalcopy]

[Church finds his way to the roof most nights. It's an old habit from his time back at Blood Gulch. Standing on the roof, keeping an eye on things while everyone else slept. He's been trying to do other things to pass the time, like reading, but old habits being what they are.
He's certainly not expecting to see a young woman with no shoes... although, on reflection is anything really that unexpected here?]

[littlesoul]

[She feels him coming before she hears him and by the time he's in her line of sight, she's practically waiting. Curiosity drives her to wonder what sort of person besides herself would seek refuge on the roof, until she realizes it's not refuge at all but old habits that bring him up.

She smiles waving at him.]

[littlesoul]

[Chell! Oh, she's happy to hear from her. She's more than happy to chat with her, even if it's just to babble about stories.]

Any kind. Anything to lose herself in.

[littlesoul]

Remember some of them. Stories passed down, collected, turned inside and out. We build our foundations of the legends of old.

[littlesoul]

The loud kind. The kind that pulls you in and makes you dance. The kind that doesn't let you go until it's through with you.

[littlesoul]

Sing loudly, put a show on.

[silentrunning]

[Chell thinks, looong and hard and finally settles on making a story up. Surely it can't be that hard, can it? She's read many in books and they all begin a certain way.]

Once upon a time, long ago, there was...

[Here she pauses to think]

there was a little bird who got plucked out of its nest and flung into a strange new land. The little bird had to make new friends, and find a way in an inhospitable land, and to learn the rules.

It wasn't easy, but the little bird was smart, and resourceful. And though it didn't always do as well as it would've liked, the little bird did eventually find a place, and a happiness...and something to soothe the questions and the uncertainties...

[Probably not the best story. But it was one. And for someone who'd never made one up...]

[originalcopy]

[There is a sort of comfort that comes with following his old routines. Not a refuge, but a casual easiness that let's one forget about minor troubles. Blood Gulch was tidal locked, the sun never moved in the sky. It had helped him forget that he never slept (being a "ghost" in a robot body and all). Here though, the sun rises and sets and he's all too aware of that passage of time. Still, he enjoys getting to see the stars and the sunrise one again.]

Uh, hi.

[he waves back]

[ooc: "ghost" in this case being Church not realizing/admitting that he's an AI.]

[ichy]

Why?

[fantasies]

So... they might be different, is that what you're saying? I can tell you one from my world. I know a bunch.

dictated ad infinitum.

[kethedammit]

[Mildmay whistles, thinking. And then:]

Four Great Septads back, there was this hocus named Porphyria Levant. Back then, before it was declared interdict, the hocuses had this thing they could do, called the binding-by-forms, the obligation d'âme. Anyway, it happened like this, between a hocus and an annemer, and it's like an oath, only a septad times more. The hocus promises to protect the annemer from everything, and the annemer promises back to be the hocus's servant and do basically whatever they want and no backchat, neither. And then there was a spell to stick it in place and make sure, you know, that nobody tried to back out after it was too late.

You can see where that'll go wrong in a hurry, right? Most half-bright folks can. But some hocuses were so powerful and so nasty that I guess it seemed like it was better to go ahead and do the obligation d'âme with a hocus you kinda trusted than go wandering around waiting for a different hocus to get the drop on you.

So there was Porphyria Levant. And there was Silas Altamont. Silas Altamont was annemer, a guy who'd been the favorite of Lord Creon Malvinius, and then when Lord Creon got married, Silas Altamont was out on his ear, and scared shitless of Lord Creon's wife, who was way better connected than him, and was rumored to have three or four hocuses on her string to boot. And she was poison-green with jealousy, because she loved Lord Creon like a mad thing, and everybody knew he didn't give a rat's ass about her. So Silas Altamont goes to Porphyria Levant-— who was powerful enough to protect him from Lisette Malvinia, no matter who she had running her errands-— and begs Porphyria Levant to do the obligation d'âme. And Porphyria Levant smiles and says okay.

Now, the thing about the binding-by-forms, is that it makes you do what the hocus wants. Except for kill yourself. They can't make you do that. But what Porphyria Levant says is, all smiles, "Oh, Silas, make love to me."

I've heard this story a few different ways. Some folks say Silas Altamont was beautiful as daylight, and Porphyria Levant had been hot for him for indictions. Some say Porphyria Levant didn't know he was molly, thought he was janus and wouldn't mind. And some say—- and I got to admit, this is what I think—- that she knew he wasn't on the market for women and that was how she got the idea into her head in the first place. And, lemme say, there're other stories about Porphyria Levant, and it sounds pretty much just about the kind of thing she'd do.

So there's Silas Altamont. He's molly, and he's still in love with Creon Malvinius, but he has to do what the obligation d'âme says, and it says, You gotta get in bed with Porphyria Levant and make her happy. And after a while he goes to her and says, "Please, I can't stand this no more, make it stop or I'm gonna go out and slit my wrists."

And Porphyria Levant says, "Silas," and smiles that little smile, "I forbid you
to kill yourself."

And that's the worst story I know 'bout hocuses, and it's all true.

[littlesoul]

Tell me and we'll see.

[littlesoul]

[She smiles, liking the sound of that story.] Little bird little bird, where did you go? I have so much that I need to know.

[littlesoul]

[She smiles] You come up here often. [It's not a question.} So do I.

[littlesoul]

Better to lose yourself in stories than it is to drown in ghosts.

[ichy]

That is not possible.

I could tell you the story of Captain James T. Kirk, but it is thirty-five chapters long.

[littlesoul]

[She sucks in a breath, her eyes wide. It wasn't what she was expecting when she asked for a story but it was good enough. It made her lose herself in the tale and she shuddered by the end of it.]

Perfectly awful. [It's the most appropriate thing she can think to say.]

[kethedammit]

Yeah, I guess. Ain't no good stories about Porphyria Levant.

[originalcopy]

Yeah, once in a while. It's a nice view... quiet.

[He moves to the spot where he usually stands. It's spring so the air at night is still quite chilly, at least according to his temperature guage.]

Aren't you cold?

[littlesoul]

i>[She shakes her head, looking up to the sky.] Used to it. [Then she turns back to him, laughing a little.] We won't be cold together.

[littlesoul]

Long stories are still stories.