#* || ic

[defiedlife]

@gemkun asked: with the proceedings underway and finalised , he , like the other applicants , alights from the stage. alongside the winning bidder. ❝ why am i not surprised ? ❞ echoes his congratulations , with perhaps , a hint of amusement. ❝ well , i am a man of my word. ❞ shifting on sandals , he tips to regard the supposedly , victorious recipient. pitching a gaze that gleams with intrigue. ❝ as promised , you may select one topic of your choice. i have set aside the rest of the day for this , but i imagine you will not use it up entirely. you have , after all , extended your fair share of complaints surrounding the exceedingly long and unnecessary periods classes run for. despite how i might remind you it is required for one’s engagement. ❞ it occurs to him , that the concept of a lesson can be skewed. especially , when it came to the likes of the strategist , whose job involved navigating twists and turns. and by proxy , creating them too. he sighs at this revelation , but trusts that aventurine will not overstep , when it is in light of charity. ❝ so , tell me , gambler — what do you wish to know ? ❞

Never let it be said that Aventurine of the Stonehearts was cheap or stingy. He'd kept his initial bids on the low end to encourage a little friendly competition and let others have their fun, but when the bidding had really heated up, there was no holding back. It was for a good cause, after all—the very reason he was willing to bid on another person in the first place, aside from the person in question being the esteemed Veritas Ratio and the real prize being time spent with the good doctor.

With the auction ended, he waits at the edge of the stage, eager to claim his reward for his efforts in sliding in with a winning bid at the last fraction of a second. Grinning from ear to ear, he offers an outstretched hand as Ratio descends, curious if the scholar will accept it or turn him down. The sigh does not escape him, and the message behind it is clear, but he doesn't intend to skew the offer in any way beyond its obvious intent. He'll behave—this time, at least, out of respect for the auction's charitable purpose.

"Now, Ratio, when have I ever complained about the time length of a class? I think you must have been dreaming. If you'd rather I start showing up in your classes so that I can occasionally complain about them just for you... I'm sure that could be arranged." Still grinning, he shrugs, nonchalantly starting to stroll away from the stage and expecting Ratio to follow. "As for my prize, I've been doing some thinking. I don't know too much about where you're from, but people from there probably have at least one unique native language of some kind, right? Most planets are that way, I've noticed. If you don't have anything against the idea, I was thinking...you could teach me the basics of it; how the grammar works, a few simple words, some important or common conversational phrases...stuff like that. That doesn't sound too bad, right, Doc?"

[defiedlife]

@purestvirtue asked: gently pulls the pathetic wet peacock from The River of Doom and kisses his forehead. go. commit more crimes.

With each step, dark water sloshes and splashes around him. Seconds and minutes drag on into what feels like hours, but it's difficult to know for sure. A quick glance at both devices tells him that neither his watch nor his phone are properly keeping time. Even the light of his phone seems to dim and flicker in the midst of pure nihility, and he instinctively knows that were it not for the shattered fragments of his cornerstone still in his possession, he would have long been a goner already.

With each step, it becomes more and more difficult to keep going, his feet dragging through the water as if it has morphed into some kind of thick sludge. The river is wide—far, far too wide, and reaching the other side is starting to feel like little more than a pipe dream. In the back of his mind, he knows such thoughts are due to the influence of the Nihility itself, but as the minutes and hours seem to go on forever, these thoughts are quickly becoming more and more difficult to ignore. He shoves them down as best he can, intent on dealing with unpleasant thoughts as he always has...except this time, his left arm creeps around with more than twice the usual effort before he's able to hold it behind his back, fist clenched tight.

But the water grows ever deeper, and maintaining his balance is crucial. His hand doesn't stay behind his back for very long, and the fear returns.

With each step, he's realizing how much he hates this. The liquid is up to his neck now, and still there is no end in sight. He's going to die here, he thinks, and only one person will know. Would she say anything to the others if he never emerges on the other side? Would she care? Would any of them care?

Probably not, his thoughts answer.

Fear grips him, and he begins to stumble, barely catching himself to stay upright. The thoughts from just before his final act begin to resurface, and even as he pushes onward, still struggling not to give up, each one is like a knife digging into him, demanding that he stop and allow himself to sink.

Coward; a knife through his left hand. Murderer; a knife through his right hand. Failure; a knife in his left leg. Cursed; a knife through his right leg. Pointless; a knife in his gut. Crazy; a knife through his neck. Useless; a knife in his shoulder. Selfish; a knife in his back. Discarded; a knife in his side. Loser; a knife through his heart.

Everything hurts, and he can feel himself sinking, the water now just below his nose. He can't—he can't go on any longer. There's no point in trying if he'll never make it out alive; if no one would even care. He stumbles again, and this time, he doesn't try to catch himself. His head goes under the water, and he can't bring himself to move. He doesn't even want to move, really. He opens his mouth to scream, and water rushes in—

But then an unexpected hand reaches for him, lifting him far above the water's surface with ease. In his shock, he instinctively clings, latching onto the armor of the one now cradling him close. He's soaked to the bone, he can't speak from coughing, and it's all he can do to lean into the embrace of the man responsible for rescuing him. Without warning, soft lips touch his forehead, and a gentle surge of comforting warmth spreads through him. The negativity assaulting his mind begins to recede, and as his breathing returns to normal, he exhales a long, slow sigh.

"....Thank you. I was beginning to think you wouldn't show, Sir Knight. Let's get out of here."

[defiedlife]

@wingspiked

It was over.

Time had become a blur over the last day or two, and it felt as though it had been far more than that since the gambler first arrived on Penacony. But it was over, and after enduring and surviving what could have easily been his final curtain call, he'd made it out the other side. How typical—not that he could complain this time, in hindsight. It was surreal, yet incredibly refreshing to feel even the faintest bit happy that he'd survived.

And now, after all his hard work, he can rest. Perhaps an actual vacation in the Land of Dreams is in order. He could enjoy it while it lasts; let Topaz and Jade take the reins for the last leg of this mission and prop his feet up somewhere in the dreamscape instead until they all return to Pier Point. He hasn't allowed himself to simply relax in a long while, and that sweet dream holds an allure that he can't deny.

After everything, he's back in his room within the Reverie, gloved fingers trailing across the surface of the iridescent liquid within his dreampool. His thoughts wander, still thinking over the events of last couple days and all those involved. He owes much to the Nameless for that recording, and they and all the others who lent him a hand are safe this time around—a rarity that almost makes him laugh out loud.

But then his thoughts shift to contemplate a certain Halovian's fate, and his hand stills, an odd sensation suddenly prickling at the back of his neck. Sunday, he thinks, and the feeling grows stronger, almost like some force has a lead attached there and means to pull him along. For a moment, he wonders if it might be some remnant of that 'consecration,' but no—the Emanator had already done him a great service in removing it for him. She wouldn't have left any trace of it behind.

Immediately following the initial resolution of conflict, he'd heard talk the Order and its connection to and influence over Penacony, but only in snatches of overheard whispers and conversations; nothing concrete yet. His gut tells him now that THEIR influence could explain what he's currently feeling, but with no clue how or why, he hesitates.

Yet he can't turn his thoughts away from Sunday, and the prickling sensation continues, growing stronger; becoming more of a tug. Sunday, that winged bastard whom had, on more than one occasion, expressed interest in him—oh, it wasn't fair. The interest was mutual; it still is, in spite of everything.

Aventurine's feet begin to move before he realizes it, and he follows that tug, the sensation quickly spreading to envelope every part of his body. He leaves his room, walking past other rooms and down corridor after corridor, the number of guests and employees nearby thinning out to become less and less. At one point, he pauses to observe his surroundings before quickly stepping over a rope barricade meant to keep guests out.

Through another hallway and around another corner, he spots an elevator—clearly older than those the guests have access to, and surprisingly rickety in its appearance. It stands in stark contrast to the opulence of the majority of the Reverie, and it's impossible to know where it might lead him. He's not even entirely sure it will function enough to take him anywhere, but ever the gambler, he steps into it anyway, pushing the button for the lowest possible floor on impulse.

The elevator whirs to life, mechanisms creaking and groaning from disuse and neglect. For a moment, he wonders if it might break, but it soon comes to a stop once more, opening to a dark hallway. His phone retrieved from his pocket, he steps out of the elevator and turns on its flashlight to see a few doors at the end of the hall, as well as an opening to another corridor about halfway down. He chooses the corridor one more time, and at the end of it is a single door.

The feeling that has lead him this whole way suddenly swells, so pronounced that he doesn't think twice at all before opening the door and slipping inside. The interior of the room is dimly lit; just enough that he turns off the flashlight and pockets his phone. At a glance, it appears to be a large, old storage room that's fallen into disuse, with a few boxes of supplies off to one side and a few decommissioned spheroids on the other. Within one, he spots a bit of movement, and his heart skips a beat. Instinctually, he knows who it is.

"Mr. Sunday," he calls out, his voice soft but still echoing a little in the quiet of the room. "...It's you, right? What are you doing down here?"

[defiedlife]

DING DING ! THERE IS AN INCOMING MESSAGE ! [Dear customer , happy birthday ! We greatly appreciate your PATRONAGE in PENACONY ! BELOW is a VOUCHER for ONE FREE DRINK AT ANY BAR ! We GREATLY appreciate your stay [AVENTURINE OF IPC] ! May all your dreams come true :) The FAMILY.] There is , indeed , a voucher attached to the message.

Unprompted, the gambler's phone dings within his pocket. He half-expects it to be some message from work. Perhaps it's a reminder of a scheduled phone or video call he's forgotten about, or word about something that urgently needs his attention, courtesy of his assistant. Curious, he pulls the device out to check...

...And his face promptly falls. That was a reminder he didn't want or need, and he can't help but wonder how he came to receive the message in the first place. He hadn't spoken of his birthday when checking in, other than handing over the required identification that happened to display it. Were it not for the official appearance of the attached voucher, he would think it was solely a well-timed prank.

It's clearly automated—or at least seems that way—so it could just be the work of a low-level hotel employee doing their due diligence. He can't fault anyone for it, in that case. Still, all things considered, there's a distinct multi-layered irony in this little gift purportedly coming directly from The Family.

He exhales a quiet sigh, clicking his tongue and slipping his phone back into his pocket. At least the drink he orders this year will be free, so that's something. His eyes scan his surroundings, his footsteps pausing as he stops to take in the sights and sounds of the Golden Hour for a moment. His family would've liked it here, he thinks—especially the theme park. A sharp ache settles deep within his chest, and he shakes his head before turning on his heel to find a bar.

If only he weren't going to be drinking alone.

[defiedlife]

@avaere asked:

he surely should have left it like this, with aventurine's back turned and him on the way elsewhere, far from the possible obstacle in his pursuit for order. and yet there must have been something in the flickering lights of the insomniac city, perhaps even the way music would echo from the various corners of each hectic corner of divine liberation ; sunday should have walked , but he didn't. in the light of the flickering kaleidoscope skies, sunday found it in him to strike up another conversation. bouncing off their last encounter. "...every guest is a unique individual with their own hopes, dreams, and reasons for being here," he'd attempt to imitate the gambler's way of speaking, albeit poorly for he was not quite the mockingbird some might have pinned him as. there'd be a subtle clearing of his throat as sunday would come to place himself beside the gambler, sharp yellow gliding out to the sky before them and the great hall floating in the distance. " it intrigued me, if you mind me passing the overly formal greetings, what you said ; it got me thinking. " hands would fold against his back. " every guest and their uniqueness, poor or rich, sane or - fleeting. though, in their pursuit of a good dream are they truly so different ? ..." whether it was a question directed towards aventurine or himself was left to interpretation, perhaps both. but there would be a turn of his head, sunday's gaze seeking to the gambler, voice almost too sweet and gentle; " what would your dream be then , mister aventurine ? if you, like the rest, happen to be so unique as you stated last time."

Out of the corner of his eye, a familiar figure caught the gambler's attention, his stride slowing mid-step. Although he wasn't particularly eager to engage the Halovian in conversation after how things went the last time, he'd learned something during his time on Penacony thus far—if Sunday showed himself in order to speak, it would be wise to listen. There was no telling what information he might be able to glean about the Family, and no telling why Sunday had deigned to speak to him again in the first place.

It was a gamble, and one that he would make again and again so long as there was even the faintest chance that it could prove worthwhile.

However, the sheer mockery in that voice stopped the Stoneheart completely in his tracks. Or perhaps—was it mockery, or was it that he simply couldn't tell for certain without making eye contact? He couldn't hear any overt cruel intent, but then again, Sunday was a master of maintaining composure from what he'd seen of the Halovian thus far. Taking advantage of the fact that the other man couldn't see his face yet, he allowed his brow to furrow, a scowl of annoyance and confusion briefly darkening his features.

Really, he should just keep walking and forgo the chance at a conversation, but something kept him still where he stood. Whether it was intuition, curiosity, or some force stronger than either, he couldn't say. Regardless, he elected not to answer what may have been a rhetorical question, and his facial features were carefully relaxed back into something more neutral by the time Sunday stood directly beside him.

The next question that followed, however, only served to reinforce the way he was frozen in place. He felt his blood run cold, in as much as such a thing could happen within the dreamscape. Sunday was trying to get in his head. He'd questioned it before, but he felt certain of it now, and their prior conversation had made it all too easy for the Halovian to accomplish.

If he lied and gave a vapid or noncommittal, nondescript answer, then he would be disproving his earlier assertion; not an option at this point. If he was firm but vague, he could end up being nearly as revealing as if answering with total honesty. If he were to do that, it would be akin to baring his soul—which seemed to be exactly what Sunday was hoping for, if that shift in tone was anything to go by.

He could either play it safe and still keep his cards relatively close to his chest...or go all in and find out where diving down the rabbit hole would take him. The more he thought it over, the more he realized what little choice he really had. The challenge was to be truthful enough to avoid invalidating his prior statements and satisfy the other man's curiosity, but still withhold the finer details. The risk was that whetting Sunday's palate with a fraction of the truth could prompt even more prying questions in the near future, given that this was already a second occurrence.

It was a risk he'd have to accept.

"...You really don't play fair, do you, Mister Sunday?" He sighed the words, his tone equal parts bitter and resigned. Though he tried to be careful with his words, he was entirely truthful. "My dream would be an impossible reality, and experiencing it once or twice while I'm here wouldn't be worth the cost. It would taint the memories I have of those dearest to me, and I'm not willing to do that for a temporary sense of satisfaction and fleeting happiness. They're...too important to me. Is there anything else you'd like to ask?"

He could just as easily get a satisfying rush from a good game of poker, and that wouldn't compromise his memories of his mother and older sister, nor would it give him more of a false sense freedom than usual.

[defiedlife]

@kafkaisms asked: " You can ignore Wolfie if she's bothering you, you know. Neither Sam or Bladie are going to complain when she inevitably turns to them. "

"Hm...?"

From over the rim of a mug of coffee, a brightly-colored eye opened to peer at Kafka across the table. Sleep-addled as the gambler was, it took an extra second or two for her meaning to register within his mind, but then he lowered the mug and quickly shook his head. A grin, fond and tinged with excitement, gradually spread across his face. It didn't quite reach his eyes, but it came close.

"Ignore her? Absolutely not! But," he scrambled to add, "...don't tell her I said that, or else I might not get any sleep at all some nights." Such was the life of someone who already struggled to get to sleep before the earliest possible hours of the morning, only to then be woken up by an excited hacker to do gacha pulls for her a scant three or four hours later.

It was worth it though.

"I don't mind if she asks me to do a few pulls for her whenever an update rolls around for one of her games, and seeing the shock on her face whenever that gold color pops up several times in a row is pretty priceless. She's been trying to rope me into playing a couple of them to have a little competition—best account, best teams, best builds, you get the idea. Maybe I'll take her up on that one of these days if Elio doesn't keep me too busy."

[defiedlife]

@rcgrator asked: " gambling, you say ? " now that interests the ninth. " ah - i myself am a BUSINESS man. " / :) :)

"Your words say one thing, but the interest in your tone tells me another, Mr. Businessman." The gambler can't help but grin, knowing all too well that dangling the tiniest scrap of temptation ought to be more than enough if the interest he can sense is real.

Duochrome eyes partially hidden behind rosy shades sweep over the taller man before him, analyzing just as much as peering with interest. He sees a kind smile, a curious glance, and a subtle stance that is almost the very definition of a snake in the grass; hidden and waiting to strike. He knows the type well, having rubbed shoulders with many a similar person and playing the role himself when necessary. Under different circumstances, unless his assessment is vastly off the mark, he could easily see this man fitting in amongst the high-ranking elites of the IPC.

But of course, there was only one way that could ever happen.

"I'm a gambler by trade, and as a personal hobby. Since you seem so curious, you must have a wager you'd like to bring to the table. Fair warning, though—I don't make bets or deals that won't benefit me somehow. I'm sure you can understand that yourself as a fellow businessman."