thecrossing | voice + text

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!npc: the ferryman

voice + text

[You feel it before you hear it: an uncanny sensation like you aren't alone, like someone just out of sight has fixed their attention on you.

They're not hiding, though. The Ferryman is simply speaking, directly into all of your minds, as clear as if they were standing right beside you.]

It's starting.

Sorry. Was hoping you'd all have more time to rest before we got going. But when it's time, it's time.

We're going to Cross. Not now, but soon. You'll feel it when the moment gets here. And you need to be ready for what that means, when it does.

It's a dangerous journey. There's still a lot of yourself left to lose, even if it doesn't feel like it now. That's my role here. I can guide you through it. Keep you safe.

There's a cost. You'll have to give something up, a part of your life Before. A face. A feeling. A memory. That's your toll to Cross. You pay it to me, and you won't get it back.

You don't have to pay. But if you're not with me, I can't keep you safe. You'll have to make The Crossing on your own. And if you do, there's a chance you lose a whole lot more than what the toll is asking from you.

There's some time left still. You don't need to decide now. But you do need to decide. You'll find out soon what sort of toll The Crossing is asking for, this time around.

Come find me if you want to talk. I'll be where I always am.

[The connection is tenuous; message delivered, The Ferryman's voice fades from your mind. If you're quick, and you concentrate, you might be able to grab on long enough to ask a question or two more.

Otherwise, all that remains is the object that purports to connect you with the other souls, all tasked with making the same decision. Whether it's a page or a screen, there's a new message for you:]

A toll to be levied for safe passage
from the cavern to ǝɹǝɥʍǝsʅǝ

Hear a voice that causes you pain
words spoken with rage or grief or envy
fueled by hate or love or suffering

offer it to The Ferryman
and let go

[ ooc | And we're off! Remember: The Ferryman is (for now!) the only one who can communicate to everyone via voice; the rest of you are stuck with text! The only exception is if characters try to hijack the fading connection to talk with The Ferryman one-on-one; there's a header for those questions here.

Otherwise, consider this a mingle! Chat, threadhop, go nuts. ]

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[He's misunderstood, she thinks. It had been upsetting the first time, when she'd been new and was closer to who she'd been. Then she'd forgotten that she hadn't known, and when she'd remembered, with Elspeth, it had just been a minor embarrassment. She can't work up a lot of distress now, either. This is why she prefers sharing memories directly to talking about things.

Celehar already has to try to work around discomfort about what she is. It would be better to let it lie. Need shrugs and verbally prods at him, just a bit.]

Haven't had anyone want to hold hands with me in a while, but sure. I hate to feel like I could be getting senile at last.

[She turns her hand palm-up, offering it casually. She doesn't really think anything will come of this but isn't against it. Her hand is pretty large, and the lingering pride in her occupations in life means it retains the coarse, callused, scarred texture that it had borne once.]

[Celehar clicks his tongue - this isn't the first time that he's dealt with a woman too old to give a damn about speaking her mind, or teasing him specifically, though admittedly few have been quite as sharp about it as Need. And as far as his pride goes, this is barely a tap, after the gossip of the Untheileneise Court, or even the wild speculation of the journalists of Amalo.

More importantly - this is the work of his calling. So he reaches out to touch her hand, fingers to palm.

His is cool, not callused like a swordsman's, but neither the pampered hands of a noble. Just hands - simple tools, but not scarred and marked by the work of any notable vocation. The touch, however, only lasts a moment. Nearly as soon as he's reached out, he withdraws his hand again, bowing his head apologetically.]

... No. I am afraid it will not work. My apologies, Othalo Need.

[Need grins, fleetingly. It's fun to poke people and she's convinced that it's good for them. She's been holding back, and still is, because she does have a sense of time and place.

She wonders just what being a prelate entails and might have examined his hand, see if there's a writing-callus, if he'd left it longer. Need had become more interested in peoples' hands after having to go without and that hasn't vanished just because she has them again now.]

Don't worry about it. It doesn't hurt me. [She rubs that palm with the thumb of her other hand.] So, what normally happens?

[Somehow the question visibly takes Celehar back, for a moment. His gaze drifts, settling on the black cloth of the makeshift altar, as gaze and voice both go distant.]

When I touch the body, I can sense the lingering presence of the soul. Often, there are memories that remain. Sometimes the dead can be coaxed into remembering the answer to a question. Other times, the memories are strong enough to come unbidden.

[unbidden, a memory of fiery explosions and the stench of burning rises. He swallows it back down.]

I do my work when petitioned, often by a family member of the dead. The petition is not necessary to the sense, but... perhaps the body is. Or maybe death has taken from me the need for such things.

[There's the tiniest seed of doubt to his voice.]

My body's long gone. Anything that was part of it has been part of so many living things since then, I don't have claim to any of it.

[That's fine. A little wistful, maybe. The Tayledras, who she sometimes thinks might be very distant descendants, cremate the bodies of their dead so that they're in the air, part of everything, inhaled by the living. Need's body wasn't burned - she thinks she had Vena leave it there, in the ruins of their home - but time has made the difference academic.]

We're all separated from some of the senses and abilities that were part of us, here, if they're not something an ungifted human or... [She raises her eyebrows expressively. Celehar would inherently qualify as 'human' to her, he's closer to a lightly modified human than to even a tervardi but Need's aware that he might not agree.] would have.

It's not the most pleasant feeling.

I had not realized maza would be affected that way. No, I must agree it would not be pleasant.

[It takes him a moment to register the unspoken question, distracted as he is by his own concerns, but the silence makes him look, and on catching her expression he realizes the context of the unfamiliar word, in among a discussion of gifts/. Silly of him, not to realize that there might be Maza present. But - Need's so much a physical presence, it was easy to assume her talents for lying elsewhere. Even after what he knows of her backstory.

He clears his throat.]

I'm elvish, from the Ethuveraz.

[She's pretty sure 'maza' is magic. Probably better to circle around and confirm it, and she expects he'll like a moment away from those things troubling him.] Good to know.

The world I'm from is called Velgarth. A long time ago, people with nothing better to do found a way to visit other worlds. Some appeared very similar to our own, to the point where at first they believed it was our past or future. Lots weren't. Sometimes there aren't any humans or, hm, elvish. Flying just by willing it is impossible in Velgarth but there are worlds where it isn't. And terminology isn't consistent at all.

[there's a Tarma and Kethry short story where Need takes them through a portal into an Elisabeth Waters canon and they help a dragon, and then it turns out it was just their spirits that went there while their bodies slept. ...so my read is that multiverse "travel" was a magic art developed concurrently with uplifting hertasi and mostly lost in the Mage Wars.]

In Velgarth we have several kinds of magic, but only one is considered 'true' magic. [She shrugs expressively. The distinction would be meaningless here. She really hopes Celehar will know the word 'magic'.] So people are in the habit of calling any ability to use this magic a 'gift'. Is maza like that?

[Celehar has turned towards Need, by now, but maybe not for the better - his expression speaks of a deep skepticism. He doesn't interrupt the explanation, but she doesn't need to read his mind, or his ears, to get a good idea of what he's thinking.

In fact, he's biting the inside of his lip to get through the explanation without blurting out something, probably insulting. He doesn't think she'd do something so drastic as strike him, but better for everyone involved if he doesn't test tempers.]

Your story would cause quite a stir in the Ethuveraz, Othalo.

[It's the context and the similarity, mostly - he does at least seem to recognize that sort of distinction.]

Having a talent for a maz is different from being called on to serve a god, with one such as a Witness. A maza is born, then trained - I cannot speak to their arts, aside from that I have seen the work of it, and the result.

[Need would have gone on for longer, but she does know how to read the room. She's annoyed, not outright angry.]

Hrm. Try looking at it like this, then: 'people from far away are different, and do strange things that make sense to them'. Don't tell me your people don't have tales about that kind of thing. [She's not openly condescending, but there's certainly a suggestion of I have to give children certain allowances there.] My point is, most of the people here, myself included, would be from very far away from your Ethuveraz and have different ideas about what's possible, and use different words.

Yeah, that sounds familiar. I was born with certain abilities that expressed themselves in my youth, I was trained to a degree, I've worked on them since. What kinds of things have you seen these maza do?

[Celehar thinks that tales of other worlds would have eyebrows raised just about anywhere, even given the strangeness of those he has encountered - knowing the extent of the elflands, the presence of strange peoples beyond it is better within the bounds of possibility. He doesn't say that. He just sighs, and moves on rather than argue about something neither of them can very well prove]

It would take someone far more stubborn than I to dismiss the differences that have been found here, having found neither elves nor goblins.

[And, thankfully, a more neutral topic.]

I have only occasionally seen them, or heard reliably of their workings. A colleague recently called on a maza to find a man, knowing only his name - One of the Emperor's nohecharei, his guards, killed a man who attacked His Serenity, to illustrate the breadth.

I've known people that stubborn and I'd like to think I'm slightly more flexible than that.

[She says it with a grim good humor, turning the topic of being too convinced to change back on herself just a bit, and is willing to move along. Need will just have to not be open with Celehar about anything too complicated. It's fine.]

Huh... yeah, sounds like some kind of magic to me. And your spirit-sensing is something different, wasn't it?

Edited 2025-01-08 11:31 (UTC)

As flexible as a sword? [Celehar says it, but there's at least some measure of humor to the words, thin though it might be. He's not been prone to even light jesting, since...

Since then. The quirk of Celehar's almost-there smile disappears again, his focus, as always, brought back to the work of death.]

I suppose gift is not a word so terribly wrong for it. The Witnesses are of Ulis - though it is not only those devoted to him who receive it. I knew a woman - a widow, who only on her husband's death learned she could hear the voices. It is those of us involved in the rites who touch the dead enough to learn to hear them, in the first. But the candle of our listening gutters quickly. [He looks to her.] And your gifts?

Exactly.

[Need's a bit disappointed that this glint of a sense of humor is gone as quickly as it had appeared. Well. You can't force this kind of thing. She's already waiting for a good time to ask Celehar about the upcoming choice, and that's probably not condusive.]

Witnesses burn out. [Need says it exactly as if she doesn't get that there's a pun there.] That's a bit familiar. Were you already sworn when you started hearing them?

We're born with or without potential for various gifts, but, ah, it's buried, you could say. Very hard to know it's there. For some it's a shallow burial, and they start showing as children, or it breaks through as they're becoming adults. Then, use and training uncovers it the rest of the way. For others it's buried deeper. If it ever emerges, it's all at once in a moment of trauma. That usually gets this person out of immediate danger, but - it's got its own problems.

[The uncharitable could say (and the journalists almost certainly have, whether amongst themselves or in print) that being a stick in the mud is just as much Celehar's calling as his work for the dead. He certainly seems determined to prove it true at every turn.]

I was taken in to the novitiate at a young age, and in my training when I realized that I had been hearing the dead, when I prepared their bodies.

[With the room cleaned, more or less, Celehar is left with little else to occupy him - so he settles his fingers, laced together, in front of him, and turns to face Need.]

Witnessing is not strengthened, in the way you describe - it is assisted by becoming used to the state of the soul, and by learning how to seek answers to one's questions.

I see.

[Probably one of the better positions to be in when it starts happening, Need figures. Well. With the shift in the conversation, she thinks now is probably time to shift back to the reason she came in to see him. She nods, acknowledging what Celehar's just said and meeting his eyes for a good moment to signal the change in topic.]

Speaking of. We're going to have to come to a decision here. [She uses a gentler, less declarative tone. Need's sympathetic to him, even if her own reaction is kind of strange.] How are you feeling?

[It's such a blunt question in the manners of the Elflands that Celehar is momentarily taken aback, reminded in ways of Anora's prodding and steadfast friendship. It strikes him with a pang, the realization that his death will grieve his friend.

How he is here, surrounded by strangers who would not speak intimately with him.

He does his best to brush it aside, looking around the space of the makeshift shrine. Need is right, in this sense - there's more important things here, and while her help is appreciated, the true matter at hand is the words the voice had spoken into his - and everyone's it seems - head. He watches her in turn.]

It... is a simple decision. The toll must be paid.

[She catches a distinct flicker of pain before Celehar looks away. His gaze is more neutral when it turns her way again. Need settles back, and since sitting with folded hands always bothers her, out come some of those glowing plants, which she methodically plaits together.]

It's simple, if you trust the Ferryman. Seems like that's not universal. I understand their reluctance, I think.

[She inhales to ask again, how are you feeling, but lets the breath go, some of it passing through the perforation in her chest that marks where her sword had gone. It can wait.]

[The work is a soothing distraction on both sides - Celehar's attention catches on the glowing things, and he watches as she settles in to her work, mulling over it.]

So I would guess.

[His notebook is in a pocket - he retrieves it, opening it to flip through the pages and the strange writing that he now finds within it, from strangers. He doesn't scan them all, but if Need has spent any time looking through it after the message, she might well know the kinds of messages his eyes catch on here and there.]

I will not condemn ill-feeling, but to deny their words seems foolish. Death is death. The darkness will take us, inevitably.

[Over, under, twist, feed in the next stem. She'd started out weaving squares but has turned to hoops or circlets by now. They're not so fiddly and she doesn't have to reckon with her perfectionist aspect as much.]

'I don't fear the darkness that came before my birth, why should I fear its return when I die?' [...Need doesn't remember who said that or how much she's paraphrasing. Surely some kind of priest.] Fighting it might make it take a little longer, maybe. Or make it more painful as it approaches. But people won't all just believe it when they're told, they have to let it sink in for themselves.

Especially children. People who had futures and reasons to stay.

[A sigh, as Celehar watches the weaving come together, his ears low. he's not one to fidget, but there's part of him that wishes to pace here and there. Though her point...]

There are so many here who are young.

[He's felt that observation, but articulating it makes it feel even more real - they are not children by his entire estimate, but even at eighteen the Emperor feels like a child to him, and these youths that surround them are saddled with less responsibility, and to his eye, younger than that. It's... disquieting.]

Still, to grieve and to deny are different things. If, in their stubbornness, they hurt themselves, hurt others...

Very young. It's a mercy there aren't any younger, actually.

[Few people don't feel like children to her, though she tries to be conscious of that bias. And Need's been around long enough to be familiar with the fragility of the very young. At least everyone she's seen here is physically capable of independence and at least moderate understanding of the situation.]

Well, yes. But there's no getting out of it. What are you thinking of when you say they'll hurt people?

[Celehar suppresses a shudder and a grimace, at that. He knows all too well the many, many ways one can die - and he doesn't wish to countenance the horrors of some of them.

Others, though - he can't help but think of them, in the moment of Need's question. one hand rises unconsciously to his head, remembering the chilling echo of the revethavar's voice, its interest. When he marshalls himself from the recollection, his voice is more stern, more gravelly.]

I was killed by a thing which had once been a man. He twisted himself, to gain power. To escape death. And ghouls... [He shifts a shoulder, where desperate fingers had once curled.] They clothe themselves in corpses, when they rise. I do not speak lightly, Othalo Need, when I say that I would do anything in my power to keep them from troubling the living.

[Need leans forwards in sudden sharper interest herself, only to catch herself and settle back again. She reminds herself not to ignore Celehar's dedication to focus on this once-been-a-man part.]

I know. The dead shouldn't rule the living - not by command, and not by the fear of howling things in the night. They have to be stopped. I'm just not sure that any of us have that kind of passage back out of the world of spirits, now that we're here.

[Reincarnation though, yes, she's familiar with that. It's not the choice of the one incarnated and it takes years for any memories to return.]

Did he have to set that up, start that twisting, when he was still alive?

[The sudden movement catches his attention in turn - Celehar is watching her carefully now as he picks his words.]

I was told it was the praeceptor of an order, who had done so to himself, and sealed been sealed away. In truth he lured treasure hunters there, and killed them. Toyed with them.

[Celehar trails off. Had he lived, he would have discovered the room where it had happened and understood the sacrifice involved in the ritual, learned more than the sheer malevolence of that creature as it toyed with him. In death, what remained impressed on his mind and body was only the empty hollow where a person had been replaced by a monster.

He shakes his head, as though casting off the memory of the pain.]

Revethavar or not, ghouls I would not countenance. However they may come to be, they are still tied to their names, to the person they were in life.

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