This faint red glow begins to warm in front of you, like a tiny tinder flash that begins to burn into a bright flame. Until there before you, you see a massive glowing red eye that just peers into you, inspecting you, piercing you, looking around, to you, within you. No words, no language. You immediately feel this sense of fear and odd desperation, but it begins to subtly pull away as you feel it connect to you. Like a single thought enters your mind, the light seems to swarm and fill your space. And all it says is-- without language, but feeling, emotion.
Flashes of something in shadow, large, ominous, monolithic. A city. A city that is moving under its own power. Hunting. Moving with will. Following. You feel the fear of Vokodo. You feel it trying to escape. You feel this city hungry and chasing. You flash into the streets of the city. You see paved roads. You see buildings and towers. And they flick and bend, organically, shift like they're alive. Roads pulse. This is weirdly familiar, but so alien. Thousands of minds within are the city. It doesn't make sense. Hungry, seeking. There's another flash. Within the minds of Eyes of Nine
And you hear this faint sound. This humming, like thousands of bees buzzing and as you listen, you begin to see scratches, shapes, spinning fractals that the mind can barely comprehend, flashes of the pages that you had looked at in that tome. (That tome?) And it's not buzzing; they're voices. They're screams. Hundreds, thousands of them, just faintly out of view.
"Welcome."
The eye closes.
None of this makes sense. Your mind struggles and you fail, leaving you cold, empty. Torn apart.
You feel as if you shouldn’t have seen this. You feel as if you needed to see this.
What are you doing here?
Help them. Keep reading. Marks and marks on the page, the scrawl of someone trying to copy a dream (nightmare) into language, frenzied and
You look at the back of your hand - the scars down your arms, the lavender skin, familiar - but the red eye upon the back. Well.
[That was a gag tag but actually I'm leaving it, because there is a big part of her that's like.
Oh.
The feeling before, of there being a puzzle she wanted to solve - it's there again, so strongly. None of the horror of it, of looking on it, the way her brain doesn't want to take it in, does more than just pique her curiosity. The tome, hmm? Nine eyes. Nine voices saying "welcome." Nonagon - something woke up, and then. . . what next? Out of all of that came -
Oh. Molly. That's right. Not a puzzle to be taken apart, but rather. Hmm.]
he is abjectly fucking terrified is what he is at the moment - recoiling from the memory like it's hit him, or, more accurately, really fucked with his head so badly that it feels like he's about to get one of the signature harrow nosebleeds.]
What in the fucking hells was that-- Was that yours?
[the hand was. clearly purple. also it had an eyeball on it? he should recognize that.]
[Too bad, because she was going to tell him it was something embarrassing. Then again, it is pretty cringe. Oopsie, my name's Lucien, I tried to summon an ancient nine-sided city eldritch being and accidentally fucked it up so bad I woke up in a ditch and became a clown. It's at least number two in the Top Ten Necromancy Fails Youtube compilation video.
Anyway, oh - she reaches for his hand and clasped it tightly, her expression firm.]
Molly. Envy was a fool to put you in the top five.
[And then later when you've managed to recover your instagram password from the horrible clown that's taken over your life, there's just a bunch of griefers following you who are like, oh, we liked your content as the clown actually? stop murdering people? really annoying.]
What are you-- [Oh, okay, hand is held, there are still thoughts of Eyes, and a very visible face journey from "aaaaaaaaaaa" to `what the fuck` to `fuck you`]
He-- He said I was the top choice, actually, but Douman would be a jealous asshole about it.
He. . . he heard the word 'empty,' assumed it was 'M.T.,' and of all the names in the world that could have gone along with 'M.T.' he chose Mollymauk Tealeaf?
[Harrow smiles sometimes if she's being mean, or about to take you apart with a bone creature! Don't make it weird!]
. . . When I joined the Emperor as his Lyctor, he declared my new name to be Harrowhark the First, severing my allegiance to my old House. Technically, 'Miss Nonagesimus' is not the proper form of address, though it never was -- it would be simply Harrowhark the Ninth, or more formally Reverend Daughter or Lady Nonagesimus -- and to hold any title of the First is a great honour. But I have not. . . corrected those who call me Nonagesimus. It is . . . a Ninth House name.
Of course not, Gustav looked after me. He got the papers all together and everything for me and everything. Need to have papers when you're wandering to and fro about the Empire looking purple and not speaking that much with a shady carnival.
[All memories of holes in the head and eyes are briefly forgotten. He likes this conversation about names much more.]
You should use the one that feels the best to you, Miss Nonagesimus. It's a good Ninth House name.
. . . The Saints are named that way as well. My teacher, Mercymorn the First, is the Saint of Joy. She is the dourest and most unpleasant woman I have ever encountered in my life. [And that's coming from Harrowhark.] The Saint of Patience, Augustine the First, is Ianthe's teacher. He is not so much patient himself as he tests it in others, as his favorite hobby is to tell young women long and pointless stories of himself hoping they'll listen in fascination and giggle at the right parts. The Saint of Duty, Ortus the First, is indeed quite dutiful. When he decided it was his duty to murder me he went to it with commendable diligence.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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[To begin to understand it.
This faint red glow begins to warm in front of you, like a tiny tinder flash that begins to burn into a bright flame. Until there before you, you see a massive glowing red eye that just peers into you, inspecting you, piercing you, looking around, to you, within you. No words, no language. You immediately feel this sense of fear and odd desperation, but it begins to subtly pull away as you feel it connect to you. Like a single thought enters your mind, the light seems to swarm and fill your space. And all it says is-- without language, but feeling, emotion.
"Welcome." "Welcome." "Welcome."
"Welcome." "Welcome." "Welcome."
"Welcome." "Welcome."
Flashes of something in shadow, large, ominous, monolithic. A city. A city that is moving under its own power. Hunting. Moving with will. Following. You feel the fear of Vokodo. You feel it trying to escape. You feel this city hungry and chasing. You flash into the streets of the city. You see paved roads. You see buildings and towers. And they flick and bend, organically, shift like they're alive. Roads pulse. This is weirdly familiar, but so alien. Thousands of minds within are the city. It doesn't make sense. Hungry, seeking. There's another flash. Within the minds of Eyes of Nine
And you hear this faint sound. This humming, like thousands of bees buzzing and as you listen, you begin to see scratches, shapes, spinning fractals that the mind can barely comprehend, flashes of the pages that you had looked at in that tome. (That tome?) And it's not buzzing; they're voices. They're screams. Hundreds, thousands of them, just faintly out of view.
"Welcome."
The eye closes.
None of this makes sense. Your mind struggles and you fail, leaving you cold, empty. Torn apart.
You feel as if you shouldn’t have seen this. You feel as if you needed to see this.
What are you doing here?
Help them. Keep reading. Marks and marks on the page, the scrawl of someone trying to copy a dream (nightmare) into language, frenzied and
You look at the back of your hand - the scars down your arms, the lavender skin, familiar - but the red eye upon the back. Well.
That’s new.
It ends.]
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Oh.
The feeling before, of there being a puzzle she wanted to solve - it's there again, so strongly. None of the horror of it, of looking on it, the way her brain doesn't want to take it in, does more than just pique her curiosity. The tome, hmm? Nine eyes. Nine voices saying "welcome." Nonagon - something woke up, and then. . . what next? Out of all of that came -
Oh. Molly. That's right. Not a puzzle to be taken apart, but rather. Hmm.]
. . . Hmm. Could you see that one?
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well
he is abjectly fucking terrified is what he is at the moment - recoiling from the memory like it's hit him, or, more accurately, really fucked with his head so badly that it feels like he's about to get one of the signature harrow nosebleeds.]
What in the fucking hells was that-- Was that yours?
[the hand was. clearly purple. also it had an eyeball on it? he should recognize that.]
Shit! Shit! Fuck.
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Anyway, oh - she reaches for his hand and clasped it tightly, her expression firm.]
Molly. Envy was a fool to put you in the top five.
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What are you-- [Oh, okay, hand is held, there are still thoughts of Eyes, and a very visible face journey from "aaaaaaaaaaa" to `what the fuck` to `fuck you`]
He-- He said I was the top choice, actually, but Douman would be a jealous asshole about it.
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[You calmed down a little, bud? Having less of an existential crisis and more of a panic attack?]
Acknowledge it, or no?
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. . . You started calling me Molly.
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[Apparently, the answer is that we aren't acknowledging it. Which is fine.]
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Gustav thought he was rather clever when he thought of it, yes. Empty. M.T. Mollymauk Tealeaf. Very funny.
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[Harrow smiles sometimes if she's being mean, or about to take you apart with a bone creature! Don't make it weird!]
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I like it. It's mine. It was given to me as a gift.
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[But no, she understands in a way.]
. . . When I joined the Emperor as his Lyctor, he declared my new name to be Harrowhark the First, severing my allegiance to my old House. Technically, 'Miss Nonagesimus' is not the proper form of address, though it never was -- it would be simply Harrowhark the Ninth, or more formally Reverend Daughter or Lady Nonagesimus -- and to hold any title of the First is a great honour. But I have not. . . corrected those who call me Nonagesimus. It is . . . a Ninth House name.
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[All memories of holes in the head and eyes are briefly forgotten. He likes this conversation about names much more.]
You should use the one that feels the best to you, Miss Nonagesimus. It's a good Ninth House name.
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[Stop acknowledging her feelings!!!]
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[sorry you have been perceived. low int score, very high wis score.]
Some other tieflings do-- what is it called. Virtue names? You know. A lot like calling yourself Greed or Wrath or Pride. But, good things.
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Like. . . Chastity? Benevolence? You Tried?
[Don't like it.]
. . . The Saints are named that way as well. My teacher, Mercymorn the First, is the Saint of Joy. She is the dourest and most unpleasant woman I have ever encountered in my life. [And that's coming from Harrowhark.] The Saint of Patience, Augustine the First, is Ianthe's teacher. He is not so much patient himself as he tests it in others, as his favorite hobby is to tell young women long and pointless stories of himself hoping they'll listen in fascination and giggle at the right parts. The Saint of Duty, Ortus the First, is indeed quite dutiful. When he decided it was his duty to murder me he went to it with commendable diligence.