[Ashley McGowen]
Wharil's managed to get Ashley back to her apartment. It's not difficult - she's short, of average weight, and most people could manage. Her keys are with her, in the pocket of her slacks along with Dylan's dog tags. Not much good the latter will be doing them, anymore.
She hasn't really moved or spoken since she broke free of Dylan's mind. With Ashley's general temprement, it probably would have been easy to assume that she's just angry at first, that it's a tantrum brought on by severely wounded pride. As time goes on though it becomes clear that that isn't the case. Her skin's gone pale and the tremors haven't really stopped; she's been utterly unresponsive to any stimulus and wouldn't get up to move from the spot in the hallway.
Her apartment looks much as it always does. There's a hungry dog that wanders over hoping to be fed when the door swings open. It's comfortably disorganized, full of books, and at the moment, very dark.
[Wharil Choc]
Wharil had been quiet still on the drive over to Ashley's apartment. There was no whistling or happy chatter. For one thing his lings and his heart still gave the impression that thtey might decide to give up on him any time soon. For another, the only person he had to chat with was unconscious.
And all because of Dylan Willis.
Maybe...maybe leaving just then wasn't the right thing to do. He could have stayed on Dylan's heels. Persued him through the Telaurian. He could have leaped through the massive scar that the marauder burrowed through, or at least trapped him. Slowed him down. Something.
But he hadn't gone there alone. He was the one with the gun, and the one who's heart was damn near un-made. But of the two of them, Ashley seemed to be the worse for wear.
Wharil wasn't a large man. He'd have struggled carrying a large toddler. He struggles with Ashley as well, placing her against the side of the door, placing himself there as well to keep her upright while he fished for her keys, and finally carrying her inside between kicking the door open and shut. He was relieved when he found a sturdy but soft couch to plop her down on, and took the few moments to calm his damaged heart from pounding unsteadily from the exertion.
And Ashley still wasn't awake.
[Ashley McGowen]
What is possibly a bit more disturbing is the fact that she flickers into consciousness and opens her eyes from time to time, and they are unseeing. Glazed over, shellshocked.
Wharil is a Euthanatos, and he's well acquainted with death and its leavings. He's probably seen the look before from someone who has just lost someone or seen things they shouldn't have seen. He might even have felt it himself under such circumstances or when he went through the Euthanatos induction ritual. Welcome to the club, die a little inside. And outside too.
She opens her eyes when he puts her down on the couch, and moves just enough to curl into a ball the way she'd been in the hallway. There's room for Wharil to sit, and it's doubtless that he needs to.
[Wharil Choc]
Doubtlessly he does. Wharil sits heavily on the couch, watching the dog languidly as it trots up to sniff at his shoes, the cuffs of his pant legs and coat, the parts of him that tell the tale of where he's been. There's no olfactory record of where Ashley's been, however? No indication of why she is the way she is right now.
His heart skips a beat. Not from any overly emotional moment, but from the fact that it too is tired.
"Ashley." he whispers weakly, preparing himself for the stupid question. "Are you okay?"
Of course she wasn't okay, but one had to start somewhere.
[Ashley McGowen]
To Zane, all is still right with the world, because he is a dog and he isn't smart enough to know any better. He sniffs at the legs of Wharil's pants, licks his hand, licks Ashley's face, and trots over to the two bowls placed on the kitchen tile and huffs. A bit of normalcy that might under normal circumstances be refreshing, given that the situation they just emerged from was anything -but- mundane.
To Wharil, exhausted and with his heart protesting with every move he makes, it's probably supremely irritating.
Ashley doesn't respond either to the dog or to Wharil. There's 'not okay' and there's 'tonight I've experienced Lovecraftean horror,' which, given the staring eyes, is probably what this falls into.
[Wharil Choc]
Wharil's eyes closed tightly, and opened slowly. This was not a good thing. This was what they called a resounding failure.
No, not a failure. They found Dylan Willis. Or what was left of him. They were simply suddenly faced with a new task that neither was prepared for.
Wharil's chest rose jaggedly, and lowered slowly.
Maybe...maybe he was gone. For good. Lost out there in the great unknown. Maybe they wouldn't have to worry about him. But they'd still have to worry about themselves. And each other.
They had done it to him. The Ones. They'd fallen off their path and dragged him down too.
Wharil's eyes found Ashley again, still curved tight in a shape that only really felt safe, Protective, but wasn't. She might be able to fight her way out of this. She certainly wasn't okay. His chest raised again as his lungs filled, and he began to whisper, then chant in a language most people thought to be dead, along with its people. His people. His mind focussed on Ashley's as once again he peeked in, looking for the cracks and blemishes in her mind. Looking to see whether or not they would grow.
[Wharil Choc]
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 4, 7, 10 (Success x 4 at target 4) [WP]
[Checking for Corruption of the Mind - Mind 2, Entropy 1. Coincidental effect, Base diff 3, -1 For focus (Mantra), 1 WP spent]
[Ashley McGowen]
Ashley doesn't fight him in doing this. Normally she would; most Tytali hold very little to be sacrosanct, but the Mind, the seat of the Will, is one of those things. When she comes back to herself, she'll regard this breaking of her Will with little other than shame.
In bypassing it, though, Wharil can see the fissures, see how thoroughly things have been broken, and out of that he can sense a sort of primordial destructive energy, a whiff of Jhor. It's not strong right now, not yet.
The mind, in encountering death, seeks ways to overcome it. For some, the only way to reconcile it is to try to understand it, to look inward, to eventually become a destructive force stronger than the thing that broke them. There's that pull of hunger always present in Ashley that, although weakened right now, certainly has the potential to grow into something greater.
They haven't grown yet, but the seeds of taint are there, and it doesn't take an oracle to see where it's eventually going to lead.
[Wharil Choc]
"Ashley." Wharil says, quiet but firm. He was tired, and a little bit scared with the way his heart, of all things, felt like a sore, cramped muscle. He'd probably have to get to a hospital soon. But for now...he had to be a rock. He had to play the part of someone even a Hermetic might rely on for help.
By definition, challenges such as these are never easy.
"Ashley, I know you can hear me. Listen to my voice. Find it. Listen to nothing else. You're in a dark place right now, I know. Its frightening and confusing. But you have to come back, Ashley."
[Ashley McGowen]
Hermetics are taught from the moment of their induction to the Order, from the moment they swear to the Code of Hermes, that their path to Ascension requires them to rely on their Will alone. The Tytali compound upon this: the Will must be tested in order to grow stronger, pain and strife and conflict are the only things that shape the Enlightened Will of a mage. Most do not turn to other people for help, even when they desperately need it; Tytali usually learn that at best there's no help to be had, and at worst that they'll have experienced pain only to have learned nothing because they went to someone else.
Wharil, fortunately, is not trying to contradict any of these teachings. He's providing a rock, something upon which she can stand up and steady herself. Temporary fortitude so that she can gain her bearings in a Twilight.
That said, there still isn't much of a response, except for at her name, which manages to draw eye contact. She's listening, trying to reorient herself. Trying to remember that she isn't in Dylan's head anymore, she's here.
[Wharil Choc]
Her eyes moved. it was only a little thing but it was plenty. On some level she was conscious. Lucid. That was good.
There were textbooks for this sort of thing. Instruction manuals for grief counselors. Most of them highlighted the need to reinforce the subject. Something along the lines of: Avoid making them seem weak or helpless. Also, avoid any possible aggression.
"This isn't you, Ashley. Take it from me, the world's a fucked up place, but it's not that fucked up. And its not enough to overpower someone like you. Are you really gonna let some whacked out Orphan get the better of you? Come on back, Ashley."
Physical contact can be a powerful healing tool, but if physical contact is unwelcome, it may backfire. Instead, consider inviting the subject to hold hands.
Wharil squeezed his hands shut once. There was no telling what his damaged circulation might do for his coordination. And Wharil had to be sure that his hands would be steady as he reached out to her. One held firmly onto her shoulder. The other was places against her forehead.
Speak clearly, in a steady, even tone. In order for you to get through to your subject, you must ensure that they can hear and understand what you are saying.
His voice started with a raspy whisper, rising to a high, harsh peek, then down low and quiet again. And as Wharil continued this cycle there was more of himself put into it. More of his voice, and the power of his lungs. More carried from the lower reaches of his diaphragm. More carried higher into the ceiling. More of the undulating song carried off clearly. What he was saying didn't matter, apparently. it wasn't even in English. But how he was saying it...
The stereotype, when broken down to its simplest form, resembled something like Euthanatos=Death. And perhaps in some way it was right. One would have to imagine that the mournful emotion with which Wharil chanted in the dead tongue could only be picked up by swimming in the essence of death itself.
[Wharil Choc]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 8, 8, 9, 9, 10, 10 (Success x 6 at target 4)
[Mourners Chant: Charisma + Expression, -2 diff.]
[Ashley McGowen]
She can't understand the tongue Wharil is chanting in, this strange mournful sound that is vaguely reminiscent of music but never quite reaches its pitch. It's all fortunate, that, because she can't hear pitch; song would fall upon her ears as harsh and grating and discordant. Words do not. Words have power, and it's the Words that underlie the chant that she hears: Hope. Perseverance.
Acceptance.
It's not enough to overpower someone like you. And that appeal reminds her of what she is, what she should be. That this is one more challenge, one more small hurt, to overcome and overpower and dominate. That no one but her controls her Will, that she is allowing them to affect it, giving them power that should be hers. It lets her forget, even temporarily.
Her hand claps over Wharil's, finding it on her shoulder, and it tightens almost painfully before she takes in the clammy feel of his skin, the fact that he is also less than well, and loosens her grip. "Jesus Christ," she says, starting, jerking back into awareness, though she doesn't move from her spot on the couch. The two words convey a lot of things - 'what the hell just happened?' 'what the hell did I just see?' 'how did I get here?'
It also doesn't take more than a few seconds to sink in. Ashley sinks back into the cushion, takes in everything that has happened in the past two hours, and shuts her eyes, reaching up with a thumb and forefinger to whisk away moisture before she can suppress everything and gain her bearings. "...Thanks, Wharil."
[Wharil Choc]
Wharil's chant clipse to an end as soon as Ashley comes roaring back to to lucidity. At first, he watches her cautiously, then gives encouraging nods as she takes a breath, two, earns her bearings anew and re-acclimates herself to reality. This reality. Lets just call it 'The Only Reality' for the sake of comfort.
"...Thanks, Wharil." She says.
"Anytime." He replies, and does that thing that still amazes those who've seen what he's seen even to this day. He smiles. Bright, relieved, and alive.
And then he coughs. its sudden and violent, and his hands don't make it to his mouth in time to completely mask the sudden crimson splash on his lips. When he speaks again its with the gargle of a man holding back yet another cough.
"Yeah. Quite the evening. I think I'm gonna end it in a nice, relaxing hospital bed."
[Ashley McGowen]
Wharil smiles, bright and alive, and for an instant she almost smiles back. Then he coughs, blood appears on his lips, and until he speaks it isn't hard for her to believe that she might still be trapped in the nightmare. The split-second thought of the body coughing until it splits itself apart, until it's a shredded mass of viscera. The crimson-slicked room sucks it in hungrily, like sand in a desert.
But Wharil says Yeah, quite the evening, holds himself steady, and it's enough to keep her grounded there. Ashley frowns, recalling the magic Dylan threw around and sent flying toward the Euthanatos.
"...Yeah, hang on," she says, rising to her feet and reaching up to steady him, guiding him back toward his chair. "I'll call you an ambulance."
And, patting herself down for her cell phone, she does so, ignoring any protests he might make now that he's declared his intentions in going to the hospital anyway. Wharil needs medical attention she can't provide, and she needs to sleep. For a long time.
[Wharil Choc]
"He got away." Is his only protest, said with the regret that made it so. Made it an uncomfortable truth. "We're gonna have to try and find him again but...but I don't think either of us are in the best shape for that right now."
[Ashley McGowen]
"No, we're really not," Ashley admits, glancing over at him as she clips the phone back into its holding case. She feels pretty good right now, all things considered, but tonight's little episode has instilled within her a new sense of restraint. "We can try to make the others aware that he got away, though. He might show up somewhere else."
She drops onto the couch next to him, wearily dropping her chin into her palm. "They'll be here pretty soon. You going to be all right?"
[Wharil Choc]
"I'm fine. Well...I'll be fine."
He sat back in his seat, looking oddly pale already, and obviously in pain if his lack of major movement was any indication. His chest rose with some effort, and let it out again in a quick, heavy sigh.
"How do we tell the others? we cant even get them into the same room. Dylan was supposed to do that. Dylan..."
Dylan wasn't there. Wasn't in that room with them. Dylan Willis didn't try to rip his heart and lungs apart. Dylan Willis didn't kick a hole through reality and slide through like a passing storm. It may have looked like him, and they may have found it with a possession of his, but there was more to the man than the mad, empty shell they'd met today.
And there wasn't likely anyway back from where Dylan Willis really was.
"You think there was any...validity...to what he said? About The Ones, I mean?"
[Ashley McGowen]
"Something made him go crazy," Ashley says, leaning her head against the back of the couch and closing her eyes. Noting the labored breathing, she lets her hand rest on the top of his forearm, a gesture to keep herself present as much as to gauge whether he's going to stay conscious until the ambulance arrives.
"From what I hear, Dylan had a habit of doing things recklessly and Paradox happened to find him, but it doesn't accumulate like it did that fast. And whatever happened in his Mind, I'm not sure that just happens on its own either. The guy was pretty normal a few months ago."
She opens her eyes long enough to look at the ceiling, sighs, and shuts them again. "I'll...leave a note at the chantry or something, to warn other people about him and tell them they can't help him out. Tomorrow."
[Wharil Choc]
"No." He says, with as much urgency as he could summon just then. "Not at the Chantry. Tell who you know, face to face. Gauge their reactions. Dylan said..."
That's wasn't Dylan Willis!
"He said he trusted them, before he figured out who they were. On the off chance that wasn't just mad rambling, it would have been someone he trusts. Someone we may already know. If D--If he was telling the truth we might not just have one marauder on our hands."
The coughs sounded hollow when contained to just his chest, as if the marauder in Dylan Willis's skin had succeeded in putting a desperate pit of nothing where his heart and lungs should have been. It was, indeed, like a little bit of that nightmare come back with them.
Wharil weezed, squeezing his eyes shut, and sinking further into his seat.
"I'm just gonna...wait for that ambulance now. We uh...we can talk about this more later."
Wharil's managed to get Ashley back to her apartment. It's not difficult - she's short, of average weight, and most people could manage. Her keys are with her, in the pocket of her slacks along with Dylan's dog tags. Not much good the latter will be doing them, anymore.
She hasn't really moved or spoken since she broke free of Dylan's mind. With Ashley's general temprement, it probably would have been easy to assume that she's just angry at first, that it's a tantrum brought on by severely wounded pride. As time goes on though it becomes clear that that isn't the case. Her skin's gone pale and the tremors haven't really stopped; she's been utterly unresponsive to any stimulus and wouldn't get up to move from the spot in the hallway.
Her apartment looks much as it always does. There's a hungry dog that wanders over hoping to be fed when the door swings open. It's comfortably disorganized, full of books, and at the moment, very dark.
[Wharil Choc]
Wharil had been quiet still on the drive over to Ashley's apartment. There was no whistling or happy chatter. For one thing his lings and his heart still gave the impression that thtey might decide to give up on him any time soon. For another, the only person he had to chat with was unconscious.
And all because of Dylan Willis.
Maybe...maybe leaving just then wasn't the right thing to do. He could have stayed on Dylan's heels. Persued him through the Telaurian. He could have leaped through the massive scar that the marauder burrowed through, or at least trapped him. Slowed him down. Something.
But he hadn't gone there alone. He was the one with the gun, and the one who's heart was damn near un-made. But of the two of them, Ashley seemed to be the worse for wear.
Wharil wasn't a large man. He'd have struggled carrying a large toddler. He struggles with Ashley as well, placing her against the side of the door, placing himself there as well to keep her upright while he fished for her keys, and finally carrying her inside between kicking the door open and shut. He was relieved when he found a sturdy but soft couch to plop her down on, and took the few moments to calm his damaged heart from pounding unsteadily from the exertion.
And Ashley still wasn't awake.
[Ashley McGowen]
What is possibly a bit more disturbing is the fact that she flickers into consciousness and opens her eyes from time to time, and they are unseeing. Glazed over, shellshocked.
Wharil is a Euthanatos, and he's well acquainted with death and its leavings. He's probably seen the look before from someone who has just lost someone or seen things they shouldn't have seen. He might even have felt it himself under such circumstances or when he went through the Euthanatos induction ritual. Welcome to the club, die a little inside. And outside too.
She opens her eyes when he puts her down on the couch, and moves just enough to curl into a ball the way she'd been in the hallway. There's room for Wharil to sit, and it's doubtless that he needs to.
[Wharil Choc]
Doubtlessly he does. Wharil sits heavily on the couch, watching the dog languidly as it trots up to sniff at his shoes, the cuffs of his pant legs and coat, the parts of him that tell the tale of where he's been. There's no olfactory record of where Ashley's been, however? No indication of why she is the way she is right now.
His heart skips a beat. Not from any overly emotional moment, but from the fact that it too is tired.
"Ashley." he whispers weakly, preparing himself for the stupid question. "Are you okay?"
Of course she wasn't okay, but one had to start somewhere.
[Ashley McGowen]
To Zane, all is still right with the world, because he is a dog and he isn't smart enough to know any better. He sniffs at the legs of Wharil's pants, licks his hand, licks Ashley's face, and trots over to the two bowls placed on the kitchen tile and huffs. A bit of normalcy that might under normal circumstances be refreshing, given that the situation they just emerged from was anything -but- mundane.
To Wharil, exhausted and with his heart protesting with every move he makes, it's probably supremely irritating.
Ashley doesn't respond either to the dog or to Wharil. There's 'not okay' and there's 'tonight I've experienced Lovecraftean horror,' which, given the staring eyes, is probably what this falls into.
[Wharil Choc]
Wharil's eyes closed tightly, and opened slowly. This was not a good thing. This was what they called a resounding failure.
No, not a failure. They found Dylan Willis. Or what was left of him. They were simply suddenly faced with a new task that neither was prepared for.
Wharil's chest rose jaggedly, and lowered slowly.
Maybe...maybe he was gone. For good. Lost out there in the great unknown. Maybe they wouldn't have to worry about him. But they'd still have to worry about themselves. And each other.
They had done it to him. The Ones. They'd fallen off their path and dragged him down too.
Wharil's eyes found Ashley again, still curved tight in a shape that only really felt safe, Protective, but wasn't. She might be able to fight her way out of this. She certainly wasn't okay. His chest raised again as his lungs filled, and he began to whisper, then chant in a language most people thought to be dead, along with its people. His people. His mind focussed on Ashley's as once again he peeked in, looking for the cracks and blemishes in her mind. Looking to see whether or not they would grow.
[Wharil Choc]
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 4, 7, 10 (Success x 4 at target 4) [WP]
[Checking for Corruption of the Mind - Mind 2, Entropy 1. Coincidental effect, Base diff 3, -1 For focus (Mantra), 1 WP spent]
[Ashley McGowen]
Ashley doesn't fight him in doing this. Normally she would; most Tytali hold very little to be sacrosanct, but the Mind, the seat of the Will, is one of those things. When she comes back to herself, she'll regard this breaking of her Will with little other than shame.
In bypassing it, though, Wharil can see the fissures, see how thoroughly things have been broken, and out of that he can sense a sort of primordial destructive energy, a whiff of Jhor. It's not strong right now, not yet.
The mind, in encountering death, seeks ways to overcome it. For some, the only way to reconcile it is to try to understand it, to look inward, to eventually become a destructive force stronger than the thing that broke them. There's that pull of hunger always present in Ashley that, although weakened right now, certainly has the potential to grow into something greater.
They haven't grown yet, but the seeds of taint are there, and it doesn't take an oracle to see where it's eventually going to lead.
[Wharil Choc]
"Ashley." Wharil says, quiet but firm. He was tired, and a little bit scared with the way his heart, of all things, felt like a sore, cramped muscle. He'd probably have to get to a hospital soon. But for now...he had to be a rock. He had to play the part of someone even a Hermetic might rely on for help.
By definition, challenges such as these are never easy.
"Ashley, I know you can hear me. Listen to my voice. Find it. Listen to nothing else. You're in a dark place right now, I know. Its frightening and confusing. But you have to come back, Ashley."
[Ashley McGowen]
Hermetics are taught from the moment of their induction to the Order, from the moment they swear to the Code of Hermes, that their path to Ascension requires them to rely on their Will alone. The Tytali compound upon this: the Will must be tested in order to grow stronger, pain and strife and conflict are the only things that shape the Enlightened Will of a mage. Most do not turn to other people for help, even when they desperately need it; Tytali usually learn that at best there's no help to be had, and at worst that they'll have experienced pain only to have learned nothing because they went to someone else.
Wharil, fortunately, is not trying to contradict any of these teachings. He's providing a rock, something upon which she can stand up and steady herself. Temporary fortitude so that she can gain her bearings in a Twilight.
That said, there still isn't much of a response, except for at her name, which manages to draw eye contact. She's listening, trying to reorient herself. Trying to remember that she isn't in Dylan's head anymore, she's here.
[Wharil Choc]
Her eyes moved. it was only a little thing but it was plenty. On some level she was conscious. Lucid. That was good.
There were textbooks for this sort of thing. Instruction manuals for grief counselors. Most of them highlighted the need to reinforce the subject. Something along the lines of: Avoid making them seem weak or helpless. Also, avoid any possible aggression.
"This isn't you, Ashley. Take it from me, the world's a fucked up place, but it's not that fucked up. And its not enough to overpower someone like you. Are you really gonna let some whacked out Orphan get the better of you? Come on back, Ashley."
Physical contact can be a powerful healing tool, but if physical contact is unwelcome, it may backfire. Instead, consider inviting the subject to hold hands.
Wharil squeezed his hands shut once. There was no telling what his damaged circulation might do for his coordination. And Wharil had to be sure that his hands would be steady as he reached out to her. One held firmly onto her shoulder. The other was places against her forehead.
Speak clearly, in a steady, even tone. In order for you to get through to your subject, you must ensure that they can hear and understand what you are saying.
His voice started with a raspy whisper, rising to a high, harsh peek, then down low and quiet again. And as Wharil continued this cycle there was more of himself put into it. More of his voice, and the power of his lungs. More carried from the lower reaches of his diaphragm. More carried higher into the ceiling. More of the undulating song carried off clearly. What he was saying didn't matter, apparently. it wasn't even in English. But how he was saying it...
The stereotype, when broken down to its simplest form, resembled something like Euthanatos=Death. And perhaps in some way it was right. One would have to imagine that the mournful emotion with which Wharil chanted in the dead tongue could only be picked up by swimming in the essence of death itself.
[Wharil Choc]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 8, 8, 9, 9, 10, 10 (Success x 6 at target 4)
[Mourners Chant: Charisma + Expression, -2 diff.]
[Ashley McGowen]
She can't understand the tongue Wharil is chanting in, this strange mournful sound that is vaguely reminiscent of music but never quite reaches its pitch. It's all fortunate, that, because she can't hear pitch; song would fall upon her ears as harsh and grating and discordant. Words do not. Words have power, and it's the Words that underlie the chant that she hears: Hope. Perseverance.
Acceptance.
It's not enough to overpower someone like you. And that appeal reminds her of what she is, what she should be. That this is one more challenge, one more small hurt, to overcome and overpower and dominate. That no one but her controls her Will, that she is allowing them to affect it, giving them power that should be hers. It lets her forget, even temporarily.
Her hand claps over Wharil's, finding it on her shoulder, and it tightens almost painfully before she takes in the clammy feel of his skin, the fact that he is also less than well, and loosens her grip. "Jesus Christ," she says, starting, jerking back into awareness, though she doesn't move from her spot on the couch. The two words convey a lot of things - 'what the hell just happened?' 'what the hell did I just see?' 'how did I get here?'
It also doesn't take more than a few seconds to sink in. Ashley sinks back into the cushion, takes in everything that has happened in the past two hours, and shuts her eyes, reaching up with a thumb and forefinger to whisk away moisture before she can suppress everything and gain her bearings. "...Thanks, Wharil."
[Wharil Choc]
Wharil's chant clipse to an end as soon as Ashley comes roaring back to to lucidity. At first, he watches her cautiously, then gives encouraging nods as she takes a breath, two, earns her bearings anew and re-acclimates herself to reality. This reality. Lets just call it 'The Only Reality' for the sake of comfort.
"...Thanks, Wharil." She says.
"Anytime." He replies, and does that thing that still amazes those who've seen what he's seen even to this day. He smiles. Bright, relieved, and alive.
And then he coughs. its sudden and violent, and his hands don't make it to his mouth in time to completely mask the sudden crimson splash on his lips. When he speaks again its with the gargle of a man holding back yet another cough.
"Yeah. Quite the evening. I think I'm gonna end it in a nice, relaxing hospital bed."
[Ashley McGowen]
Wharil smiles, bright and alive, and for an instant she almost smiles back. Then he coughs, blood appears on his lips, and until he speaks it isn't hard for her to believe that she might still be trapped in the nightmare. The split-second thought of the body coughing until it splits itself apart, until it's a shredded mass of viscera. The crimson-slicked room sucks it in hungrily, like sand in a desert.
But Wharil says Yeah, quite the evening, holds himself steady, and it's enough to keep her grounded there. Ashley frowns, recalling the magic Dylan threw around and sent flying toward the Euthanatos.
"...Yeah, hang on," she says, rising to her feet and reaching up to steady him, guiding him back toward his chair. "I'll call you an ambulance."
And, patting herself down for her cell phone, she does so, ignoring any protests he might make now that he's declared his intentions in going to the hospital anyway. Wharil needs medical attention she can't provide, and she needs to sleep. For a long time.
[Wharil Choc]
"He got away." Is his only protest, said with the regret that made it so. Made it an uncomfortable truth. "We're gonna have to try and find him again but...but I don't think either of us are in the best shape for that right now."
[Ashley McGowen]
"No, we're really not," Ashley admits, glancing over at him as she clips the phone back into its holding case. She feels pretty good right now, all things considered, but tonight's little episode has instilled within her a new sense of restraint. "We can try to make the others aware that he got away, though. He might show up somewhere else."
She drops onto the couch next to him, wearily dropping her chin into her palm. "They'll be here pretty soon. You going to be all right?"
[Wharil Choc]
"I'm fine. Well...I'll be fine."
He sat back in his seat, looking oddly pale already, and obviously in pain if his lack of major movement was any indication. His chest rose with some effort, and let it out again in a quick, heavy sigh.
"How do we tell the others? we cant even get them into the same room. Dylan was supposed to do that. Dylan..."
Dylan wasn't there. Wasn't in that room with them. Dylan Willis didn't try to rip his heart and lungs apart. Dylan Willis didn't kick a hole through reality and slide through like a passing storm. It may have looked like him, and they may have found it with a possession of his, but there was more to the man than the mad, empty shell they'd met today.
And there wasn't likely anyway back from where Dylan Willis really was.
"You think there was any...validity...to what he said? About The Ones, I mean?"
[Ashley McGowen]
"Something made him go crazy," Ashley says, leaning her head against the back of the couch and closing her eyes. Noting the labored breathing, she lets her hand rest on the top of his forearm, a gesture to keep herself present as much as to gauge whether he's going to stay conscious until the ambulance arrives.
"From what I hear, Dylan had a habit of doing things recklessly and Paradox happened to find him, but it doesn't accumulate like it did that fast. And whatever happened in his Mind, I'm not sure that just happens on its own either. The guy was pretty normal a few months ago."
She opens her eyes long enough to look at the ceiling, sighs, and shuts them again. "I'll...leave a note at the chantry or something, to warn other people about him and tell them they can't help him out. Tomorrow."
[Wharil Choc]
"No." He says, with as much urgency as he could summon just then. "Not at the Chantry. Tell who you know, face to face. Gauge their reactions. Dylan said..."
That's wasn't Dylan Willis!
"He said he trusted them, before he figured out who they were. On the off chance that wasn't just mad rambling, it would have been someone he trusts. Someone we may already know. If D--If he was telling the truth we might not just have one marauder on our hands."
The coughs sounded hollow when contained to just his chest, as if the marauder in Dylan Willis's skin had succeeded in putting a desperate pit of nothing where his heart and lungs should have been. It was, indeed, like a little bit of that nightmare come back with them.
Wharil weezed, squeezing his eyes shut, and sinking further into his seat.
"I'm just gonna...wait for that ambulance now. We uh...we can talk about this more later."
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