The water is cold and black as pitch. Cupped in palms or trickling through your hair, it's crystal-clear as any water: the taste is clean, though with a strange tang of iron. But when you look down, the depths are a steady and impenetrable black. Eddying mist hangs upon the surface of the water and obscures any hope of shore.
But there must be a shore, because you can hear the lapping waves. And you can hear someone— a man's voice, pitched deep and distorted— swearing, loudly, in plain English.
"—think this is funny!" Something kicks a shower of pebbles into the water. "Well, fuck you!"
Overhead, the sun rises a dim and eerie red in a murky sky.
[Things Vash the Stampede has been through: being ejected from a crashing spacecraft, eaten by a giant sandworm, shot, stabbed, strangled. He has had his arm cut off while it was devouring itself from some kind of vortex that appeared in it out of nothingness.
None of these things prepare him to awaken in a lake. Vash has never seen quite so much water in his entire life, outside of Rem's old books and movies, and he'd be appropriately awed if he wasn't -- well, sinking. There is a lot of metal in his body, after all, even aside from the very heavy prosthetic left arm. He might have had a hard time even if he had any concept of how to swim, but as it stands, he's splashing and flailing and coughing and spluttering extremely ungracefully right about now. Extremely technically, he does not need to breathe. It is potentially debatable whether or not he can actually drown. Even so, it's an extremely alarming sensation to get unwanted water in his mouth as he struggles to gain any kind of control over his body in the water. It's around then that he hears a man swearing on the shore, kicking a pebble that hits him in the face.]
I really don't, I promise!
[Semi-garbled by water or not, he does not sound as offended as one probably should.]
[ For a moment John is taken aback, just a startled voice through the mist. Then the splashing catches up to him, and the sputtering, and— he has seen Arthur nearly drown more than once, he just nearly drowned, but John has never figured out what to do if someone else is in the water.
Arthur would jump in. ]
Jesus Christ. [ He sounds a little panicked, but what the fuck else is he going to do? John wades back in and strikes out, clumsy and splashing, for Vash. ] Here, just— swim towards me!
[ He has not thought this through. But if he can seize the man by the coat or collar without getting dragged down himself, surely that's something. ]
[Unfortunately, swimming toward John would only be a useful instruction if Vash had any idea how to swim. Even so, he really does try. The splashing and flailing intensifies, though he doesn't actually uh...make any progress, in any direction.
But maybe John can find him from all the noise he's making?]
You may have been in the Dreamlands for an hour or a day. Maybe you woke in the vast caverns within this mountain, pillars of glittering ice reaching to a distant ceiling far above. Maybe you woke in the red sand desert and barely escaped the sandstorms that flay any exposed skin to bleeding. Or maybe you woke here, in this pit.
The pit is dull, and dark, and grimly boring: it's all damp packed dirt and thin roots. The stalactites above drip occasionally. Sometimes a clammy mist pours over the lip of the pit and fills the space with cold.
There is nothing here but a single bucket of water. From the distance come the plodding footsteps of the guards. They are great faceless things like walking toads, wet tendrils where their faces should be, each carrying a cruel metal hook.
At least you have company. Your cellmate is a scrawny, scarred man in a rumpled suit. He is glaring from the moment you wake up.
It was difficult to tell if minutes or hours had passed listening to the irregular drip-drip-dripping of rainwater finding its way through the stone before uneasy sleep finally claimed Daemon. It had been long enough for his hand to grow numb to the weight of Dark Sister's grip where the sword rested on it. He only needed to close his fingers and take up the Valyrian steel blade to defend himself if a threat appeared to kill him in his bed.
What he might need to defend himself against remained a vast and unsettling mystery. Harrenhal is at best a horrid place cursed several times over by the old gods and the new (allegedly), but right now, it also houses the remnants of House Strong — family to a man who presently throws his lot in with Daemon's enemies after coming into his inheritance under highly suspicious circumstances. The family vowed to serve Daemon and his cause, but he would be a fool to take them at their word alone.
Yes, the war is why a sword is warming his bed and not any of the other things. Definitely not his wife, where he'd left her on Dragonstone to storm off and come here. Daemon is a King (Consort), so naturally, his enemies are numerous — that's the story he likes best.
When he awakens to the awareness of cold, dark, and dampness, Daemon assumes the fire in his chambers has died at some point. It's hard to keep them burning with such oppressive humidity in the air, and the chill is quick to rush in as soon as a flame burns low. Clinging to sleep a little longer to avoid facing the abject misery of this place is a typical morning since he's been here.
Or, not here..?
A bit more awareness trickles in, and Daemon is wide awake all at once, sitting upright and quickly surveying his surroundings. His eyes are wide with something he's too stubborn to call fear, though it's the sort of fear you might see in an animal's eyes when it's willing to tear itself apart in desperation fighting to survive — as a dragon would do.
His gaze sweeps over the stranger across from him more than once before Daemon seems to notice him. It's obvious when he does notice by the visible confusion on his face, studying the unfamiliar man to confirm that he's truly as unfamiliar as he feels.
This isn't the first time Daemon has woken up somewhere he shouldn't be. He's woken up to find himself standing in front of the weirwood, his hands covered in blood-red sap. He's walked past black goats that no one else seems to notice chasing visions down the halls. And the dreams. He isn't sure if he's going mad or if someone has been slipping poison into his wine. Either way, the visions usually torment him in very particular ways, which makes this odd.
At this greeting, John's expression splinters— just for a moment— into quiet horror. Of course the King wouldn't have the grace to throw him down here with some numb and grizzled veteran. Of course it's someone fresh-faced and unaware of what happens in these pits.
Fresh meat thrown down into the dark with a monster. As though it wasn't clear what role John is meant to play.
Well, John won't give him the fucking satisfaction. He steels his expression back to grim resentment. It fits perfectly on Arthur's narrow, dirt-smudged face.
"Me?" His voice rings low and distorted: it does not match the body. It is not a human voice. "I could ask you the same thing. What did you do to anger the King?"
It's clever bit of work how the edges of Daemon's experience have been so neatly spliced together with his arrival here that he continues to have no proper awareness of his predicament. This is surely a dream, and this stranger with the strange voice is just a man his mind invented to ask the questions.
He'd known a very weak king who never would have earned his respect if they hadn't been blood. He assumes they're referring to the same guy because Daemon is sure this is happening to him.
John plays a role whether he likes it or not as he feeds the delusion, and Daemon smiles as if it all makes sense now. There is something sad about it for only an instant before he gets a handle on it, and his eyes find a shadowy corner of the cave to look at just then.
"Plenty. I have to wonder which one finally did me in."
Ah. This man is mad. That's to be expected, though it's rather disappointing: John will have to tread more carefully around a mind that might easily be broken. He has grown too accustomed to Arthur's resilience.
... Or perhaps the man's blithe unconcern means that his claim holds merit. It's unlikely, but possible. Arthur Lester was not the first human dragged to these pits.
"You've opposed him for some time, then." It's said in the tone of a question, openly skeptical. "A bold choice."
Daemon no longer looks away but once again seems to be taking the measure of his unwitting companion. Lesser men have folded under the weight of that gaze, but he has no expectations of that when he is still unsure of what he's dealing with.
Well aware of the colourful history of his House, Daemon had also considered that he might be losing his mind when this all started, but madness is hardly the answer to this he would ever hope for. Something or someone seems to want to get into his head lately and he won't make it easy.
"I've never been in the habit of letting others make my choices for me. I suppose opposition is in my nature."
John does not fold under that cool and certain stare, but it does prickle unease at the back of his mind. This steady, unthinking arrogance: something in him recognizes it. A man so self-assured must think himself unassailably powerful, and there is no telling yet whether he is right.
This man is taller, broader, and better muscled than Arthur. John's expression closes slightly with wariness, and he crosses Arthur's skinny arms over their chest. He has to keep Arthur's body safe, until... until whatever comes next.
"Good," he decides. "You will need that here, if you are to survive. And we will need every advantage to escape."
Fuck the ramp: they're moving immediately to Plan B.
"Wonderful," Daemon says flippantly, making no move to get up. "Now answer my question."
He crosses his ankles and leans into the rock behind him instead, lacing his hands together in his lap to keep them still. One finger keeps tapping away on the opposite knuckle, but he's otherwise motionless. Nothing about this place makes him want to be here, but if this is some sort of test, he must tread carefully.
One thing at a time. Know who — or what, Daemon acknowledges begrudgingly — you're dealing with. At least have an idea.
The stranger's averageness isn't helping here, as there's nothing in the man's look to offer any hints. Nothing that might suggest where he's from or who his family is. Completely unremarkable except for that voice, which is another mystery altogether as its inhuman quality is not lost on him.
John bristles as though Daemon has asked something personally offensive. He draws himself up to match, arms still crossed over his chest. There is something wrong with his left pinky: the flesh gives way to dark wood like blackened bone.
"John Doe." He delivers the name with the cool pride of a sovereign. There is a mocking edge to it: the name means an unclaimed human, and he takes resentful pleasure in that. "I serve no one."
"So you're—..." He sighs, dropping his hands in a huff to ball them into fists instead. "No one at all."
Daemon isn't sure what he was expecting. Something to make this all make sense, at least. Something that would let him keep on believing this is still a dream. He notices that single bucket seemingly for the first time and tries not to look ill.
"And how's that working out for you?" He brushes hair off his neck that's just now decided to start sticking to it. "No wonder you want to escape. If you're lucky, you'll only find yourself a head shorter."
"No." But there's a flicker of uncertainty in his face, a brittleness to the insistence: "I am myself, and no one else."
He believed it when he first started fighting. Or at least he'd been angry enough to insist. He's not sure which it is, anymore: the Dark World is not kind to anyone, but it is even harsher to those without a title to wield. How long had he managed as John Doe, down there?
It doesn't matter. He is here now, and he's going to get Arthur's body out of this pit.
"I doubt anyone here would be granted a clean death." His tone is grimly certain. "That wouldn't be his style."
Daemon's last sad hope dissolves with the misunderstanding, and he laughs, the sound high and thin and a little manic. Instead, the realisation settles in that he's truly adrift and alone without even a hint of familiarity, and all the strength seems to go out of him as he lays his head back against the stone and closes his eyes.
This could overwhelm him if he let it. An hour ago, he lay in that uncomfortable bed, aggravated that he hadn't thought of a way to win the war yet. Now he has nothing — no sword, no dragon, and names count for less than nothing in places like this. Worse, Daemon knows that war is lost without him, but he doesn't dare think about that any more than necessary right now.
He won't let that happen; he's not dead yet.
"You have a plan? Tell me everything," Daemon says after what feels like a long time. "I would know my enemy."
Certainly mad, then. But perhaps no madder than Arthur had been during their time in this pit. John has heard him laugh like that, and has heard him come out the other side still willing to fight.
Tell me everything. No one but Arthur has ever said something like that to him, has ever acknowledged his existence enough to listen. It feels... nice.
"Yes." He unfolds his arms, sits up to regard Daemon more thoughtfully. "The King's weakness is in his arrogance. Humans have escaped these pits before, but I seriously doubt he has made any changes to prevent it happening again." He says humans with easy confidence in his too-deep voice. "The guards are physically powerful, but not particularly intelligent, and fear does most of their work for them. If we can surprise one, I believe we can overpower it."
He looks expectantly at Daemon before continuing, to see that he still follows.
Daemon lifts his head to peer at John momentarily when he says humans like that, but it's surprisingly easy to accept whatever that might mean, especially after a woman had told him she was a barn owl the other day. He suspects this sort of thing will only continue judging by his luck so far. With a sigh, Daemon lays his head back and closes his eyes again as he adds something else to the pile of stuff he's coming to terms with.
"The guards will be no issue." Daemon is relieved that John is so agreeable to sharing what he knows when most people would've seen this as an opportunity once they knew they had his interest. He would've been making promises of lordships and castles for the mistake of needing to rely on someone else. Weakness doesn't do well in his world, so the fact that John hasn't attempted to capitalise on the power of his House has not gone unnoticed, but then John doesn't seem to know who he is at all.
In any case, it's much better with something to think about, and Daemon has always been good at moving forward and distracting himself with a problem.
At this, John looks skeptical. He gives Daemon another look up and down, but finally grumbles agreement. If the man is so confident in his ability to fight, John will not deny his usefulness until it's been put to the test.
"I suppose so." He leans forward over his knees, his voice dropping lower. Conspiratorial.
"Each carries a long metal hook, which they use to lift and lower the buckets. That's how they provide us with water." There is something in his voice there, a hesitation he's skirting quickly around— but he hurries on: "If we can seize the hook, we may be able to overpower their grip and pull a guard down into this pit. We will have to kill them quickly and quietly."
"Simple enough." At least, in theory. Anything can still go wrong, but less complexity means fewer places where things can fail. Daemon glances up towards the lip of the pit above them and tries to gauge the distance. The prospect of taking a life doesn't seem to concern him at all. "And the numbers favour us."
There was only a single bucket; somehow, he didn't expect another to show up just because there were two of them here now. Why send more than one man to do the job?
"But you still have doubts."
It's not a question, and he's started to watch John again. Daemon's not exactly sure what he'd picked up on, but it's also not unexpected. He would be more suspicious of the person who took him fully at his word at this point.
"They make their rounds... infrequently." Only often enough to keep a prisoner alive. One prisoner. Now that John has company in this pit, they certainly won't be coming to throw down any food. "We should have an opportunity soon, but after that? It will be a long and difficult stretch of waiting."
The tactic is frankly pathetic, juvenile. John already knows this game: they will be given insufficient water to keep two human bodies alive, and the King will treat it as a kindness, that he has so generously given John an excuse.
"We must not fail in this attempt. And we don't even have a weapon."
They could pack the bucket with soil and swing it with some force, but he will not suggest it. The King would find that far too funny.
It's a familiar tactic, though hardly Daemon's preference whether he's on the receiving end or the one passing the sentence. Too impatient. Under the present circumstances, it's probably best that he and the king don't see eye to eye on this.
"Then we must not fail," he agrees, though without the same easy confidence as before. John has been here longer, so Daemon is sure he knows exactly what's at stake if they fail now that two people are occupying this space. It's not wishful thinking; it's a warning. He has no intention of wasting away waiting for his death in this pit.
"Presumably, we'll have access to its hook, but I would expect that to be unwieldy at best." He'd handled lances and the occasional spear often enough in his time, but those had all been purpose-built for combat. He has much lower expectations for the bucket hook.
"Meaning what we do in the few seconds we'll have after the fall will likely determine whether we live or die."
"Right," he agrees, and regards Daemon carefully again. To give this man control over their only weapon, and simply hope that he won't be stabbed in the back... Well. There are ways he can guard against that eventuality, at least for now.
"Once we reach the top, I know the path out of these caverns. If we are lucky, there will be enough mist to cover our escape. We will have to stay low, keep to the stalagmites, and avoid the remaining guards on patrol." His companion would be a fool to turn on him before they're truly free. Still, John speaks grudgingly: "You look... strong. You seize the hook and pull. I will wait alongside the wall of the pit, and keep the guard occupied when they hit the ground. Then you deliver the final blow."
He exhales the heavy sigh of a man steeling himself. "The odds are not in our favor. But then, they very rarely are. And I would rather die here, fighting, than waste away in the dark."
"And you won't make the same mistake that landed you here the first time, I'm sure," he says half-jokingly. Commentary aside, Daemon knows it's the best plan he's going to get under the circumstances. He appreciates the transactional approach instead of something messier. It's neat and simple, and he likes knowing where the edges are. He likes to think his death would be an inconvenience.
"Are you always so grim on the eve of battle?" More of a figure of speech than an estimate of how long he thinks they'll have to wait. "Normally, I'd have a drink, but this king is a poor host."
Now that they have a plan, they only have to execute it when the time comes, and Daemon stands because he can't bear to sit still any longer; he is incompatible with captivity. His pacing has a secondary purpose, at least, not unlike when he would walk the field for hours before a tournament, counting distances and feeling the footing to take advantage of the terrain. He listens for anything that might give a clue to the world above, continuing to distract himself enough to keep all of this within a tolerable state.
"Fuck the odds. Focus on your job: don't die before they do. It seems I need you in one piece, so you may rest assured that I'll bring an end to things as quickly as possible."
John growls low agreement that he won't make the same mistake twice. He has yet to fully decide which mistake that was: facing the King, or trusting Kayne, or losing Arthur in the first place. He does not plan to repeat any of those. He certainly does not plan to wait patiently in this pit.
From above and distantly comes the shuffle of a jailer, a damp and dragging bulk. If the timing is strangely convenient, John gives no notice of this: he does not react with anything but steely determination. He rises opposite Daemon, steps back to press his shoulders to the dirt wall of the pit, jaw set.
"We can drink once we've won." There is a grim certainty to his tone, as the plodding steps draw closer. "Fuck the odds. Good luck."
In the mist above, something moves. It appears first as a rounded, hulking shape, thick-set arms and shoulders in the fog. The proportions are wrong: the movements are inhuman. A long pole of some unearthly metal, dark and iridescent, descends in a blind and prodding path down into the pit. At its tip is a hook for the bucket.
On the other end is the jailer. If Daemon heaves it down, only then will he have a clear view of their enemy: broad and toadlike, faceless but for the wet churning of tentacles.
If he wanted to keep rationalising this as some kind of trial, the timing certainly seems to support it. It's in the back of his mind as Daemon ducks quickly to press against the wall at the first hint of movement from above, and for a moment, he glances skyward suspiciously. Was someone watching after all?
His eyes refocus on the strange metal hook probing in the gloom for the bucket instead, and they follow it to the decidedly inhuman shape shrouded in the mists at its origin. Whatever it is, it's big and cumbersome, which he hopes might be used to their advantage.
As the hook nears its goal, Daemon shoots one last look at John before he darts across to grab the pole with both hands. Treating it like a spear, he rams it forward hard until he feels meat and keeps pushing even when the metal bites painfully into his hands with the effort. He hopes it's hurting the jailer just as much, at least; if it starts making unpleasant noises, he'll assume he's doing it right.
"Get ready," Daemon rasps through grit teeth as he feels resistance at the other end of the pole. He assumes it is the jailer, intending to push it away or pull it back in — it doesn't matter. He stops stabbing and gives one sharp tug instead that sends him stumbling backwards over the stupid bucket.
Suddenly jerked toward the pit's rim, the thing up above teeters on edge precariously, scrambling to find footing as a spray of gravel dislodges and tumbles down.
"Just fall, you—"
More pebbles slide out from underfoot, and Daemon watches as the top-heavy lump pitches forward, and gravity does the rest to bring it crashing down to the stone floor with them. Without the mists to obscure it any longer, Daemon is somewhere between horrified and revolted at the sight of the misshapen creature.
Knock it down and bash its head in. That seemed plausible until... right now. Did it even have a head?
"Alright," he says, getting back up and trying not to look disturbed by this. "Your turn."
HI RONA batty again. pulling this guy out of his jamjar for bonus shits and giggles
[He definitely woke up in the pit. However, he does not look in any way alarmed by this state of affairs, actually; instead, he looks as one might if they've stepped in a particularly large pile of dog shit and it's gotten not only on their shoes but on their trousers as well, and now need to deal with the inconvenience of cleaning it up when they'd really rather just burn both and have done with it.]
Again? Really? I thought we were done with this already! Aren't we supposed to be in the middle of a mission now?? What happened to finding the "king"???
[Ahhhh the smell of a terrible misunderstanding about to brew in the not-morning. Delightful.]
[ Sitting across the pit, his back to the soil wall and his scarred arms crossed over his chest, John regards this man with weary suspicion. Nearly all of the King's victims are mad, at least by the time he's finished with them— but generally they are mad in a quiet, creeping, paranoid sort of way. Frazzled and jittery until they buckle under his influence and become worshipful and serene.
He does not know what to make of this. When he speaks, his voice is too deep for his body and echoes with a strange distortion: ]
[Sorry, what. The King has found him? Isn't this the Krampus cage again, requiring them to speak their deepest vulnerabilities to be freed? Dazai blinks a couple times, and says:]
Ah. Is this is about blowing up the carriage door? I don't even remember getting arrested. ...Or you being there, actually.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Dreamlands: Lake Hali
The water is cold and black as pitch. Cupped in palms or trickling through your hair, it's crystal-clear as any water: the taste is clean, though with a strange tang of iron. But when you look down, the depths are a steady and impenetrable black. Eddying mist hangs upon the surface of the water and obscures any hope of shore.
But there must be a shore, because you can hear the lapping waves. And you can hear someone— a man's voice, pitched deep and distorted— swearing, loudly, in plain English.
"—think this is funny!" Something kicks a shower of pebbles into the water. "Well, fuck you!"
Overhead, the sun rises a dim and eerie red in a murky sky.
no subject
None of these things prepare him to awaken in a lake. Vash has never seen quite so much water in his entire life, outside of Rem's old books and movies, and he'd be appropriately awed if he wasn't -- well, sinking. There is a lot of metal in his body, after all, even aside from the very heavy prosthetic left arm. He might have had a hard time even if he had any concept of how to swim, but as it stands, he's splashing and flailing and coughing and spluttering extremely ungracefully right about now. Extremely technically, he does not need to breathe. It is potentially debatable whether or not he can actually drown. Even so, it's an extremely alarming sensation to get unwanted water in his mouth as he struggles to gain any kind of control over his body in the water. It's around then that he hears a man swearing on the shore, kicking a pebble that hits him in the face.]
I really don't, I promise!
[Semi-garbled by water or not, he does not sound as offended as one probably should.]
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[ For a moment John is taken aback, just a startled voice through the mist. Then the splashing catches up to him, and the sputtering, and— he has seen Arthur nearly drown more than once, he just nearly drowned, but John has never figured out what to do if someone else is in the water.
Arthur would jump in. ]
Jesus Christ. [ He sounds a little panicked, but what the fuck else is he going to do? John wades back in and strikes out, clumsy and splashing, for Vash. ] Here, just— swim towards me!
[ He has not thought this through. But if he can seize the man by the coat or collar without getting dragged down himself, surely that's something. ]
no subject
[Unfortunately, swimming toward John would only be a useful instruction if Vash had any idea how to swim. Even so, he really does try. The splashing and flailing intensifies, though he doesn't actually uh...make any progress, in any direction.
But maybe John can find him from all the noise he's making?]
Dreamlands: The Prison Pits
The pit is dull, and dark, and grimly boring: it's all damp packed dirt and thin roots. The stalactites above drip occasionally. Sometimes a clammy mist pours over the lip of the pit and fills the space with cold.
There is nothing here but a single bucket of water. From the distance come the plodding footsteps of the guards. They are great faceless things like walking toads, wet tendrils where their faces should be, each carrying a cruel metal hook.
At least you have company. Your cellmate is a scrawny, scarred man in a rumpled suit. He is glaring from the moment you wake up.
🔥 yay finally getting to use this canon point
What he might need to defend himself against remained a vast and unsettling mystery. Harrenhal is at best a horrid place cursed several times over by the old gods and the new (allegedly), but right now, it also houses the remnants of House Strong — family to a man who presently throws his lot in with Daemon's enemies after coming into his inheritance under highly suspicious circumstances. The family vowed to serve Daemon and his cause, but he would be a fool to take them at their word alone.
Yes, the war is why a sword is warming his bed and not any of the other things.
Definitely not his wife, where he'd left her on Dragonstone to storm off and come here.Daemon is a King (Consort), so naturally, his enemies are numerous — that's the story he likes best.When he awakens to the awareness of cold, dark, and dampness, Daemon assumes the fire in his chambers has died at some point. It's hard to keep them burning with such oppressive humidity in the air, and the chill is quick to rush in as soon as a flame burns low. Clinging to sleep a little longer to avoid facing the abject misery of this place is a typical morning since he's been here.
Or, not here..?
A bit more awareness trickles in, and Daemon is wide awake all at once, sitting upright and quickly surveying his surroundings. His eyes are wide with something he's too stubborn to call fear, though it's the sort of fear you might see in an animal's eyes when it's willing to tear itself apart in desperation fighting to survive — as a dragon would do.
His gaze sweeps over the stranger across from him more than once before Daemon seems to notice him. It's obvious when he does notice by the visible confusion on his face, studying the unfamiliar man to confirm that he's truly as unfamiliar as he feels.
This isn't the first time Daemon has woken up somewhere he shouldn't be. He's woken up to find himself standing in front of the weirwood, his hands covered in blood-red sap. He's walked past black goats that no one else seems to notice chasing visions down the halls. And the dreams. He isn't sure if he's going mad or if someone has been slipping poison into his wine. Either way, the visions usually torment him in very particular ways, which makes this odd.
"Who the hell are you supposed to be?"
no subject
Fresh meat thrown down into the dark with a monster. As though it wasn't clear what role John is meant to play.
Well, John won't give him the fucking satisfaction. He steels his expression back to grim resentment. It fits perfectly on Arthur's narrow, dirt-smudged face.
"Me?" His voice rings low and distorted: it does not match the body. It is not a human voice. "I could ask you the same thing. What did you do to anger the King?"
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He'd known a very weak king who never would have earned his respect if they hadn't been blood. He assumes they're referring to the same guy because Daemon is sure this is happening to him.
John plays a role whether he likes it or not as he feeds the delusion, and Daemon smiles as if it all makes sense now. There is something sad about it for only an instant before he gets a handle on it, and his eyes find a shadowy corner of the cave to look at just then.
"Plenty. I have to wonder which one finally did me in."
Never admit to anything you don't have to.
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... Or perhaps the man's blithe unconcern means that his claim holds merit. It's unlikely, but possible. Arthur Lester was not the first human dragged to these pits.
"You've opposed him for some time, then." It's said in the tone of a question, openly skeptical. "A bold choice."
no subject
Daemon no longer looks away but once again seems to be taking the measure of his unwitting companion. Lesser men have folded under the weight of that gaze, but he has no expectations of that when he is still unsure of what he's dealing with.
Well aware of the colourful history of his House, Daemon had also considered that he might be losing his mind when this all started, but madness is hardly the answer to this he would ever hope for. Something or someone seems to want to get into his head lately and he won't make it easy.
"I've never been in the habit of letting others make my choices for me. I suppose opposition is in my nature."
no subject
This man is taller, broader, and better muscled than Arthur. John's expression closes slightly with wariness, and he crosses Arthur's skinny arms over their chest. He has to keep Arthur's body safe, until... until whatever comes next.
"Good," he decides. "You will need that here, if you are to survive. And we will need every advantage to escape."
Fuck the ramp: they're moving immediately to Plan B.
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He crosses his ankles and leans into the rock behind him instead, lacing his hands together in his lap to keep them still. One finger keeps tapping away on the opposite knuckle, but he's otherwise motionless. Nothing about this place makes him want to be here, but if this is some sort of test, he must tread carefully.
One thing at a time. Know who — or what, Daemon acknowledges begrudgingly — you're dealing with. At least have an idea.
The stranger's averageness isn't helping here, as there's nothing in the man's look to offer any hints. Nothing that might suggest where he's from or who his family is. Completely unremarkable except for that voice, which is another mystery altogether as its inhuman quality is not lost on him.
"Who are you? Whom do you serve?"
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"John Doe." He delivers the name with the cool pride of a sovereign. There is a mocking edge to it: the name means an unclaimed human, and he takes resentful pleasure in that. "I serve no one."
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Daemon isn't sure what he was expecting. Something to make this all make sense, at least. Something that would let him keep on believing this is still a dream. He notices that single bucket seemingly for the first time and tries not to look ill.
"And how's that working out for you?" He brushes hair off his neck that's just now decided to start sticking to it. "No wonder you want to escape. If you're lucky, you'll only find yourself a head shorter."
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He believed it when he first started fighting. Or at least he'd been angry enough to insist. He's not sure which it is, anymore: the Dark World is not kind to anyone, but it is even harsher to those without a title to wield. How long had he managed as John Doe, down there?
It doesn't matter. He is here now, and he's going to get Arthur's body out of this pit.
"I doubt anyone here would be granted a clean death." His tone is grimly certain. "That wouldn't be his style."
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This could overwhelm him if he let it. An hour ago, he lay in that uncomfortable bed, aggravated that he hadn't thought of a way to win the war yet. Now he has nothing — no sword, no dragon, and names count for less than nothing in places like this. Worse, Daemon knows that war is lost without him, but he doesn't dare think about that any more than necessary right now.
He won't let that happen; he's not dead yet.
"You have a plan? Tell me everything," Daemon says after what feels like a long time. "I would know my enemy."
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Tell me everything. No one but Arthur has ever said something like that to him, has ever acknowledged his existence enough to listen. It feels... nice.
"Yes." He unfolds his arms, sits up to regard Daemon more thoughtfully. "The King's weakness is in his arrogance. Humans have escaped these pits before, but I seriously doubt he has made any changes to prevent it happening again." He says humans with easy confidence in his too-deep voice. "The guards are physically powerful, but not particularly intelligent, and fear does most of their work for them. If we can surprise one, I believe we can overpower it."
He looks expectantly at Daemon before continuing, to see that he still follows.
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"The guards will be no issue." Daemon is relieved that John is so agreeable to sharing what he knows when most people would've seen this as an opportunity once they knew they had his interest. He would've been making promises of lordships and castles for the mistake of needing to rely on someone else. Weakness doesn't do well in his world, so the fact that John hasn't attempted to capitalise on the power of his House has not gone unnoticed, but then John doesn't seem to know who he is at all.
In any case, it's much better with something to think about, and Daemon has always been good at moving forward and distracting himself with a problem.
"No one sends their best to guard the dungeons."
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"I suppose so." He leans forward over his knees, his voice dropping lower. Conspiratorial.
"Each carries a long metal hook, which they use to lift and lower the buckets. That's how they provide us with water." There is something in his voice there, a hesitation he's skirting quickly around— but he hurries on: "If we can seize the hook, we may be able to overpower their grip and pull a guard down into this pit. We will have to kill them quickly and quietly."
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There was only a single bucket; somehow, he didn't expect another to show up just because there were two of them here now. Why send more than one man to do the job?
"But you still have doubts."
It's not a question, and he's started to watch John again. Daemon's not exactly sure what he'd picked up on, but it's also not unexpected. He would be more suspicious of the person who took him fully at his word at this point.
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The tactic is frankly pathetic, juvenile. John already knows this game: they will be given insufficient water to keep two human bodies alive, and the King will treat it as a kindness, that he has so generously given John an excuse.
"We must not fail in this attempt. And we don't even have a weapon."
They could pack the bucket with soil and swing it with some force, but he will not suggest it. The King would find that far too funny.
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"Then we must not fail," he agrees, though without the same easy confidence as before. John has been here longer, so Daemon is sure he knows exactly what's at stake if they fail now that two people are occupying this space. It's not wishful thinking; it's a warning. He has no intention of wasting away waiting for his death in this pit.
"Presumably, we'll have access to its hook, but I would expect that to be unwieldy at best." He'd handled lances and the occasional spear often enough in his time, but those had all been purpose-built for combat. He has much lower expectations for the bucket hook.
"Meaning what we do in the few seconds we'll have after the fall will likely determine whether we live or die."
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"Once we reach the top, I know the path out of these caverns. If we are lucky, there will be enough mist to cover our escape. We will have to stay low, keep to the stalagmites, and avoid the remaining guards on patrol." His companion would be a fool to turn on him before they're truly free. Still, John speaks grudgingly: "You look... strong. You seize the hook and pull. I will wait alongside the wall of the pit, and keep the guard occupied when they hit the ground. Then you deliver the final blow."
He exhales the heavy sigh of a man steeling himself. "The odds are not in our favor. But then, they very rarely are. And I would rather die here, fighting, than waste away in the dark."
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"Are you always so grim on the eve of battle?" More of a figure of speech than an estimate of how long he thinks they'll have to wait. "Normally, I'd have a drink, but this king is a poor host."
Now that they have a plan, they only have to execute it when the time comes, and Daemon stands because he can't bear to sit still any longer; he is incompatible with captivity. His pacing has a secondary purpose, at least, not unlike when he would walk the field for hours before a tournament, counting distances and feeling the footing to take advantage of the terrain. He listens for anything that might give a clue to the world above, continuing to distract himself enough to keep all of this within a tolerable state.
"Fuck the odds. Focus on your job: don't die before they do. It seems I need you in one piece, so you may rest assured that I'll bring an end to things as quickly as possible."
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From above and distantly comes the shuffle of a jailer, a damp and dragging bulk. If the timing is strangely convenient, John gives no notice of this: he does not react with anything but steely determination. He rises opposite Daemon, steps back to press his shoulders to the dirt wall of the pit, jaw set.
"We can drink once we've won." There is a grim certainty to his tone, as the plodding steps draw closer. "Fuck the odds. Good luck."
In the mist above, something moves. It appears first as a rounded, hulking shape, thick-set arms and shoulders in the fog. The proportions are wrong: the movements are inhuman. A long pole of some unearthly metal, dark and iridescent, descends in a blind and prodding path down into the pit. At its tip is a hook for the bucket.
On the other end is the jailer. If Daemon heaves it down, only then will he have a clear view of their enemy: broad and toadlike, faceless but for the wet churning of tentacles.
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His eyes refocus on the strange metal hook probing in the gloom for the bucket instead, and they follow it to the decidedly inhuman shape shrouded in the mists at its origin. Whatever it is, it's big and cumbersome, which he hopes might be used to their advantage.
As the hook nears its goal, Daemon shoots one last look at John before he darts across to grab the pole with both hands. Treating it like a spear, he rams it forward hard until he feels meat and keeps pushing even when the metal bites painfully into his hands with the effort. He hopes it's hurting the jailer just as much, at least; if it starts making unpleasant noises, he'll assume he's doing it right.
"Get ready," Daemon rasps through grit teeth as he feels resistance at the other end of the pole. He assumes it is the jailer, intending to push it away or pull it back in — it doesn't matter. He stops stabbing and gives one sharp tug instead that sends him stumbling backwards over the stupid bucket.
Suddenly jerked toward the pit's rim, the thing up above teeters on edge precariously, scrambling to find footing as a spray of gravel dislodges and tumbles down.
"Just fall, you—"
More pebbles slide out from underfoot, and Daemon watches as the top-heavy lump pitches forward, and gravity does the rest to bring it crashing down to the stone floor with them. Without the mists to obscure it any longer, Daemon is somewhere between horrified and revolted at the sight of the misshapen creature.
Knock it down and bash its head in. That seemed plausible until... right now. Did it even have a head?
"Alright," he says, getting back up and trying not to look disturbed by this. "Your turn."
HI RONA batty again. pulling this guy out of his jamjar for bonus shits and giggles
Again? Really? I thought we were done with this already! Aren't we supposed to be in the middle of a mission now?? What happened to finding the "king"???
[Ahhhh the smell of a terrible misunderstanding about to brew in the not-morning. Delightful.]
lets gooo
He does not know what to make of this. When he speaks, his voice is too deep for his body and echoes with a strange distortion: ]
It seems the King has found you.
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Ah. Is this is about blowing up the carriage door? I don't even remember getting arrested. ...Or you being there, actually.
[...]
Do quantum space trains have lawyers???
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[ John snaps it as though there was some implied accusation. Then he narrows his eyes and tries to parse this nonsensical string of words. ]
What are you even talking about? You were... on a train?
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Before I explain, a question of my own first, if you will. Does the name "Etraya" mean anything to you?