i. manifold, manifest The news of dragons -- dragons! -- returning to Wintermute was what it took to voluntarily get Illarion out of Exile. While he'd suspected that they were dragons in the sense many worlds knew them -- fantastical six-limbed firebreathers -- some small ember of hope resided in his breast that he'd get to see a greater tyrant again, or a pack of reaper-hawks -- at a respectable distance, of course.
Whatever disappointment he'd felt to have that ember crushed -- Folkmore's dragons being exactly what he'd expected -- was handily obliterated by the wonder he walked into, there under the mountain. He wouldn't account himself any kind of mathematician, having more of an aptitude for words than numbers, but any shrike who wanted a chance in Hell of living with her outself perforce had a certain instinct for high-dimensional topography. And the cavern is alive with outlife, kata and ana of what most Star Children see -- sweetly alive, most of it unthreatening flora with tesseract roots or creatures as gentle as the leshonki back home, who only use their additional dimension to hide shyly in. Even the monsters around the forest's edge are charming, in a dangerous way, since they're not pillar-corrupted -- just naturally of higher-dimension.
He'd love it, if he could love things in more than the abstract. As it is, he quickly discovers a dragon who -- while not possessing any ((outward)) body herself -- has methods for peering ((into)) that realm. Or rather, she discovers him, with a delighted squeal and a total lack of respect for the Veil when she drags her friends over to chatter at him. What's it like, they want to know, being higher-dimensional? Can he show them the trick with taking a yolk out of an intact egg? Can he flip one of their novelty hats ("Foxram-Alpha: Computational Lore-telligence") into its mirror version?
He resists, demurs, talks around what he can do at first -- then finally heaves out a bone-clearing sigh and relents to their childlike enthusiasm. Sure, he'll flip the hat, and talk only to them about his experiences, so long as they're quiet about it and maintain his anonymity. In fact if they'd just go over here away from other Star Children to do this, thank you--
But in the middle of an active conference there is no real guarantee of privacy, so if another Star Child should happen to walk in right as he's taking a chain apart without breaking its links... He's in the midst of an explanation about what he's doing, doesn't notice them at first -- then, abruptly, turns a bright (and woefully unfocused) gold-in-black glare in their direction as he does notice.
"Do you mind? This is a private lesson."
ii. infinte trolley problem hotel And if the cavern under the mountains were not enough a trove of delights for Illarion, there's what's happening atop them, too...
A moment of irritation flashes across the shrike's veiled face as he finds himself abruptly somewhere he wasn't before, somewhere so open he can ((taste)) nothing of its extent. Only floating, disconnected pieces of -- some kind of fine, pure matter hanging in the air, and the far-off murmur of the stars...
And the Voice, sudden, sexless, and intent: "Do you think the Trials are wrong?"
Annoyance burns out as somewhere in the shrike, the Warlord wakes.
"Morally, in execution, or in extent?" he retorts, before whoever else is here with him might get a word in. (Has he even registered their presence yet? Maybe, maybe not.) He's speaking Shriketongue, contract-precise about this. As one must be, to answer such a question rightly.
"The intent of this experiment is to understand Star Child moral and ethical reasoning as they apply to the Trials. Additional commentary on extent or execution is however welcome. Your responses will be used to improve the Trials."
Oh. There is a sudden brightness about Illarion, an animation and eagerness ill-befitting a dead thing, as the voice continues its explanation of what they are here to do. As the first life-or-death -- or embarrassment-- scenario is presented to them, and their victims revealed.
"You may have first choice," he cedes to his companion in this escapade. "If you'd like it."
((ooc: and YOU, dear player, may have first choice on what we're inflicting!! go wild!))
iii. one must imagine sisyphus happy (cws: possible character death, impending vehicular manslaughter
open to either fellow victims or choosers who want to radio him!)
Naturally, if Illarion should be given the chance to inflict death and mayhem on others -- in the name of teaching the mysterious experimenter a lesson in morality -- then he must also take his turn as a victim.
Which is why he is not struggling, where he's been tied (surprisingly efficaciously, both his inself and outself pinioned) to the tracks; he has simply turned his face to the sky as he listens for the approaching trolley. He's the only one tied to this section of track, he's noted, which means he's got a good idea of what will happen to him in the next few minutes.
The good of the many, and all.
"If it is mattering at all to your decision," he addresses the sky, "I accept my fate. This is not the first death by far."
Sure, it will throw a wrench into the experiment. But willingness to suffer, patience in suffering, surely changes the moral tenor of inflicting it -- not so?
iv. wildcard ((ooc: hit me up with whatever!! best bet for getting a hold of me if you want to chat is DMing plagueheart on Discord -- or ping me in the Folkmore server, it's all good.))
Illarion Albireo | Original | Myth - Existing Character
The news of dragons -- dragons! -- returning to Wintermute was what it took to voluntarily get Illarion out of Exile. While he'd suspected that they were dragons in the sense many worlds knew them -- fantastical six-limbed firebreathers -- some small ember of hope resided in his breast that he'd get to see a greater tyrant again, or a pack of reaper-hawks -- at a respectable distance, of course.
Whatever disappointment he'd felt to have that ember crushed -- Folkmore's dragons being exactly what he'd expected -- was handily obliterated by the wonder he walked into, there under the mountain. He wouldn't account himself any kind of mathematician, having more of an aptitude for words than numbers, but any shrike who wanted a chance in Hell of living with her outself perforce had a certain instinct for high-dimensional topography. And the cavern is alive with outlife, kata and ana of what most Star Children see -- sweetly alive, most of it unthreatening flora with tesseract roots or creatures as gentle as the leshonki back home, who only use their additional dimension to hide shyly in. Even the monsters around the forest's edge are charming, in a dangerous way, since they're not pillar-corrupted -- just naturally of higher-dimension.
He'd love it, if he could love things in more than the abstract. As it is, he quickly discovers a dragon who -- while not possessing any ((outward)) body herself -- has methods for peering ((into)) that realm. Or rather, she discovers him, with a delighted squeal and a total lack of respect for the Veil when she drags her friends over to chatter at him. What's it like, they want to know, being higher-dimensional? Can he show them the trick with taking a yolk out of an intact egg? Can he flip one of their novelty hats ("Foxram-Alpha: Computational Lore-telligence") into its mirror version?
He resists, demurs, talks around what he can do at first -- then finally heaves out a bone-clearing sigh and relents to their childlike enthusiasm. Sure, he'll flip the hat, and talk only to them about his experiences, so long as they're quiet about it and maintain his anonymity. In fact if they'd just go over here away from other Star Children to do this, thank you--
But in the middle of an active conference there is no real guarantee of privacy, so if another Star Child should happen to walk in right as he's taking a chain apart without breaking its links... He's in the midst of an explanation about what he's doing, doesn't notice them at first -- then, abruptly, turns a bright (and woefully unfocused) gold-in-black glare in their direction as he does notice.
"Do you mind? This is a private lesson."
ii. infinte trolley problem hotel
And if the cavern under the mountains were not enough a trove of delights for Illarion, there's what's happening atop them, too...
A moment of irritation flashes across the shrike's veiled face as he finds himself abruptly somewhere he wasn't before, somewhere so open he can ((taste)) nothing of its extent. Only floating, disconnected pieces of -- some kind of fine, pure matter hanging in the air, and the far-off murmur of the stars...
And the Voice, sudden, sexless, and intent: "Do you think the Trials are wrong?"
Annoyance burns out as somewhere in the shrike, the Warlord wakes.
"Morally, in execution, or in extent?" he retorts, before whoever else is here with him might get a word in. (Has he even registered their presence yet? Maybe, maybe not.) He's speaking Shriketongue, contract-precise about this. As one must be, to answer such a question rightly.
"The intent of this experiment is to understand Star Child moral and ethical reasoning as they apply to the Trials. Additional commentary on extent or execution is however welcome. Your responses will be used to improve the Trials."
Oh. There is a sudden brightness about Illarion, an animation and eagerness ill-befitting a dead thing, as the voice continues its explanation of what they are here to do. As the first life-or-death -- or embarrassment-- scenario is presented to them, and their victims revealed.
"You may have first choice," he cedes to his companion in this escapade. "If you'd like it."
((ooc: and YOU, dear player, may have first choice on what we're inflicting!! go wild!))
iii. one must imagine sisyphus happy
(cws: possible character death, impending vehicular manslaughter
open to either fellow victims or choosers who want to radio him!)
Naturally, if Illarion should be given the chance to inflict death and mayhem on others -- in the name of teaching the mysterious experimenter a lesson in morality -- then he must also take his turn as a victim.
Which is why he is not struggling, where he's been tied (surprisingly efficaciously, both his inself and outself pinioned) to the tracks; he has simply turned his face to the sky as he listens for the approaching trolley. He's the only one tied to this section of track, he's noted, which means he's got a good idea of what will happen to him in the next few minutes.
The good of the many, and all.
"If it is mattering at all to your decision," he addresses the sky, "I accept my fate. This is not the first death by far."
Sure, it will throw a wrench into the experiment. But willingness to suffer, patience in suffering, surely changes the moral tenor of inflicting it -- not so?
iv. wildcard
((ooc: hit me up with whatever!! best bet for getting a hold of me if you want to chat is DMing