[D8, Dream]Peak Condition (Open-ish)

(OOC: *Finally* had a shred of inspiration for my dream. If you want to contribute, please let me know first. By prior arrangement, Ser Theomore has first dibs.)

Daveth dreamt of pain.

An achingly familiar pain, an orchestrated symphony of agony.

He was, once again, on the mountain. Climbing upwards, ever upwards. One step, another, another. Onwards. The mountain so red as to be almost black, and at its impossibly distant peak, bright red stormclouds roiled around, sparring with lighting.

Step, step.

On his back, he carried a large basket, filled well beyond capacity, some objects, like that of a pathetically broken boy's body, all too recognisable, while others were at best ambiguous, like a small wooden box, sealed with a lock, but covered in chains, themselves held fast by an even bigger lock. Over his head flew small cackling figures, each a different colour, all with his face, all constantly flying in from elsewhere and dropping more objects into the basket, ensuring it becomes ever-heavier.

Step, step.

From his heart within his chest extends a white chain, leading forwards into the hazy middle-distance. On one side of the chain is carved the words 'I know it is not expected of women, but I am the blade and the bulwark of my family.', and on the reverse is etched 'My deeds are duty, and none of them are worthy of a lady's pride.' A second chain, black, extends forwards from his groin in much the same direction. Instead of etchings, it possesses moments of time, showing Dyana smiling, laughing, looking around. Further away, the images become more and more erotic, before they're too distant to make out clearly. Neither chain is taut - they show a direction, but offer little help to get there, and within a short distance, they're impossibly tangled in each other so that it's impossible to tell where one chain ends and another begins, or if there is by then, only a single grey chain.

Step, step.

Well ahead of him, up the mountain, he sees Garret, laughing, cavorting, and fornicating with an endless parade of attractive naked women, their gyrations sending rocks loose that tumble down and regularly strike Daveth on his legs. He buckles, bends, but does not break. That time. Looking back up, Garret's jumping to the next willing girl so lightly it's as if his body itself weighs nothing.

Step, step.

Instead of his face, Daveth is wearing a white porcelain mask, with a polite smile on it. The rest of the expression changes, like a living thing, but the smile remains fixed.

Daveth's attention is distracted by a squeal of joy from a familiar voice upslope. Looking, he sees the latest woman Garret's with, looking mockingly down at him, is ... Loreia?!

"
This is what you've been wanting all this time?"
she taunts;
bent over, but still modestly clothed and with her armour still strapped on, moaning her pleasure as Garret ruts against her backside.

"
I've ever been beside you, but you're too timid! Your brother's stronger, braver, and *much* better in,"
she giggles coquettishly "
other ways, but so what? This is what a true lord does! Take that stupid mask off, drop that silly burden and join us, before he spoils me."


For a moment, Daveth finds himself reaching for the straps holding the basket to his back. Then, he realises what he's doing and stops. "
No. You're my sister, now, Lor-"


At that moment, Garret thrusts, and Loreia's face explodes in ecstasy, eyes rolled back, eyelids flickering, legs shaking. Despite that, she manages to slur out the words. "
Too late! You will always be ... too late."
Garret releases her, and she slumps out of view behind the rocks, while Garret bounds off into the distance towards his next partner, not looking back.

Step, step.

From some invisible corner, a stone is thrown at him, hitting his mask, and knocking a chip loose, to see a fragment of the face beneath. Just enough to recognise that he's not smiling.

More stones follow, hitting him at unexpected intervals, from unexpected places. He bears the pain, and carries on. He knows this dream. So long as he doesn't look back...

But, no. Something's ... different. Something's wrong. He feels it, rather than senses it, a sickness, like poison through the veins. Awkwardly looking around, he tries to figure out what's wrong.

And he does.

[size=85:3i6mqvpu]Edit: Added Loreia's addition here, since it would have disrupted the flow of the conversation later on.

"
Why wear a mask when we both know that it cracks when you least want it to?"
Theomore sits on a small ledge, relaxing his back against smooth rock. Casually examining a small stone he holds aloft in front of his face, of the right size and shape for throwing. Next to his feet is a dead body, face down, the hilt of a dagger protruding from his back, what Daveth can recognize from the face is vaguely familiar to him. Theomore sighs, as if he knows exactly when Daveth starts to recognize one of his informants. "
Look at what you made me do."
the voice seems careless, as if the deed was merely the most expedient way to solve an annoyance.

Daveth feels a stabbing pain in his head, and clutches at it. "
What? You- Why are you-?"
he shakes off the pain, and glares back at the knight. He opens his mouth to answer, and three voices speak simultaneously.
"
I wear a mask because knowledge is power, and some knowledge is less power than all knowledge."

"
I wear a mask because I want people to like me."

"
I wear a mask for the same reason I wear clothes. It's a requirement for the world I live in. A breakable mask is like clothes with holes in - a flaw, but still better than nothing at all."


Looking at the body, Daveth replies again.
"
Better that a stranger die than another family member."

"
I always knew I wasn't good enough to fight you without casualties. I accepted this long ago."

"
To beat you, I know I have to become like you. To live with myself, I know I have to not become you. Alone, I walk the razor's edge between damnation and destruction. That"
pointing at the body "
is nothing more than a single step forwards."

"
And yet, you give those with eyes to see the holes the knowledge that you are false. And nobody likes a man that they know to be false."
Theomore jumps down to the body beneath him to pull out his dagger, wiping off the blood on the man's clothes. "
You try to expose me, but without a proper mask, who do you think will be exposed first? Me to others? Or you to me?"


"
You do not want to be like me, fair enough, there likely is no room for more in all the Riverlands. But if you refuse to be me, and I see through your mask, and see what you try to do..."
Theomore unceremoniously kicks the body over on it's back, lifts it's head up by the hair and starts pulling. "
Some masks are better than others, and I know a great deal more about them than you."


"
Behold the stakes you are putting on this game..."
and with that, he pulls off what now reveals itself to merely be an elaborate mask of quality beyond the means of ordinary men to make...revealing a much more chilling sight than the lifeless face of a stranger.

Theomore Tullison wrote:"
And yet, you give those with eyes to see the holes the knowledge that you are false. And nobody likes a man that they know to be false."
Theomore jumps down to the body beneath him to pull out his dagger, wiping off the blood on the man's clothes. "
You try to expose me, but without a proper mask, who do you think will be exposed first? Me to others? Or you to me?"

"
No man improved himself by cowering away in a supposedly safe corner. And no danger was ever truly avoided by averting one's eyes and simply hoping the Stranger passed them by."

"
A slim hope is always better than none."

"
You're right that the odds are against me. But only a craven lets fear stop him from doing what's right. Never Falter!"

Theomore Tullison wrote:"
You do not want to be like me, fair enough, there likely is no room for more in all the Riverlands. But if you refuse to be me, and I see through your mask, and see what you try to do..."
Theomore unceremoniously kicks the body over on it's back, lifts it's head up by the hair and starts pulling. "
Some masks are better than others, and I know a great deal more about them than you."


"
Behold the stakes you are putting on this game..."
and with that, he pulls off what now reveals itself to merely be an elaborate mask of quality beyond the means of ordinary men to make...revealing a much more chilling sight than the lifeless face of a stranger.

Garret's face stared lifelessly back at him for a moment. The next instant, it was his mother's. Loreia's. Ser Jorah's. On and on it changed. Dyana. Ellen Huh?. Badger*. Lord Coldbrook.
Daveth shakes his head, angrily dispelling the sight. "
I know you're already trying to kill all of us, what difference does it make if I try and see it coming? Certainly doesn't seem to make any."
he says, dispirited and angry. "
I told Ser Jorah. I *told* him to not get involved in the trial.** But that stupid, stupid bastard does it anyway, doesn't he? Gives you the win-win situation you were after? Either Lady Floretta gets one step up the inheritance chain, or you kill off another key member of House Coldbrook, either way, you keep your hands seemingly clean. Congratulations. Your parents must be so proud."


(*If you don't recognise the name, this is Loreia's dog. It's a dream, okay? Roll with it.
**OOC note: it's in a private thread, but I really did. Sigh.)

"
What if you are wrong, Daveth Coldbrook?"
Theomore smirks. "
You pride yourself on your logic, where is the logic in me holding the lance if I was the one plotting your brother's death?"


"
I have my schemes and pawns, some of which you have skilfully unearthed, unless you have only found the breadcrumbs meant to distract from the important parts... but what if there are others behind me?"


"
What if my part was supposed to end with that which all agreed was an accident? And you have brought danger upon yourself and those you hold dear by chasing shadows from the flames consuming another?"


He shrugs, striking a piece of flint against his dagger to spark a raging fire..."
No matter, you do realize what I must do with annoying little pests? Question is, will gazing upon your charred remains be satisfactory...or shall I have to be more thorough?"

"
The logic is the thrill in getting away with such transgressions. The same reason why you spoke with Ser Benjen the night of the rape in public. You get a kick out of being there, seen by everyone, and *still* getting away with it.

"
It matters naught if thee were the mastermind, or but a pawn thereof. Either way, the path to justicevengeancesafety lies through three."
Daveth straightens up, and unwisely starts advancing towards the knight, and as he does so, a shadowy shape bulges out from Daveth's chest before being drawn back, like it's attempting to escape, though Daveth appears to not notice the attempt. As he advances, he rages, and the shape pulses, each seemingly feeding the other, so that escape seems more and more likely with each passing word.

"
It was by thine hand that my brother was struck down, and sent me and my kin to the Hells,
so from Hells' heart, I stab at thee;

to the last, I grapple with thee;

for Hate's sake, I spit my last breath at thee."


As Daveth spits his last line, he has left himself standing right in front of the knight before him, with none of his usual caution or reserve. Only rage.

(OOC: I would say I'm sorry for the (rather mangled) reference, but I'm totally not. It's just so apt.)

Theomore just smiles..."
Why should I fight you, Daveth Coldbrook? This is your nightmare after all, so you would only succeed in killing me if you fear what comes after...and if I kill you, you will wake up"


"
And whatever the case, I shall be visiting you all the more frequently, I think. I do so love the view."

(OOC: Have edited in a contribution from Loreia into my first post, as I couldn't figure out a way to fit it in elsewhere)

The shadowy shape bursts out of Daveth's chest, with him seemingly still unaware, creating the shape of the top half of another Daveth, but one utterly absent of colour. He reaches down, draws Daveth's dagger, places it into his right hand, and starts pushing the arm holding the dagger towards Ser Theomore's throat.

Finally, Daveth notices what's going on. "
What? No!"
he brings his left arms around and tries to arrest the motion of the blade. "
He's to take the Black! That's the only way to end the cycle!"


Blood calls blood. That's the only way to settle a loss. Whatever your words proclaim, you *want* this. That's why I'm going to win.

"
No! I just want him exposed, that's all!"


You really should be more honest with yourself. After all, you're the only one driving this, and look what you're doing.

Sure enough, Daveth's efforts are futile, and his dagger starts digging into Ser Theomore's throat.

(OOC: Giving you the option for one last barb/action, else the dagger will ram home, and Daveth awakens with a start, looking at his hands like he's expecting to see blood on them.)

Rather than his throat being opened, it simply fades away, Ser Theomore Tullison takes on a misty shadowy appearance, his face swirling as leaves caught in the wind, almost giving the appearance of Daveth's reflection, though a triumphant smile outlives the rest of his form, and hangs alone in the air for a moment before it, too, dissipates.

Taking the black, was it? Expose me to the world? a voice even more unwelcome than the others, less encouraging, more mocking. You can deny it all you like, Daveth, but that isn't what you are going to try, is it? You'll become just like me.


Unless you are too weak.

Unless the journey does not kill you first.

Daveth stood panting, staring at the space Ser Theomore vacated. But then, his chest feels warm. He reaches up, and his hand returns bloody. His hand follows the blood up, and finds his own throat split wide open. He becomes light headed, and he's falling backwards, through the ground that's no longer there,

falling

[size=85:efhxy78j]falling

[size=50:efhxy78j]falling

Until, at the moment of impact, he awakens with a start, hands reflexively reaching for his throat as he gasps in panic. The lack of a physical wound doesn't settle him any.

He knows the wounds go deeper than the skin.

(/scene)