#trialofheartsrp

[faantasm]

⁀➴ arc iv task. the costume

Even if it is full of love, all a ghost can do is haunt. 

―  Avina St. Graves

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[faantasm]

⁀➴ arc iii (optional) task. the pantone

gun metal gray. the color of statues, the color of storms, the color of cool metal. inflexible, dangerous, caught in between.

assorted moments associated with the color, selected from the nightmares of one archer drake, participant in the trial of hearts.

i. half moon bay. she would know it blind and deaf, from the feel of the sand beneath her feet, from the smell of the breeze off the water. the fog was too thick to see through. a familiar voice sounded out over the water, soft and tremulous. “don’t leave, arch. don’t leave me. i can’t lose you again.” “i won’t. you won’t.” she replies like a promise, but when she steps into the water she does not find the comfort of a pinkie wrapped with her’s. there is only the cold and the dark and the crushing pressure, the hand she hoped to grab already out of her reach.

ii. the storm rages, high wind and drenching rain, but archer flees out into it anyway. she is something small, her claws digging into the dirt to keep herself steady, and what waits for her is larger, sharper, capable of eating her whole with one snap of her teeth. “i can help you.” she insists, her eyes on the chain that binds, searching for a weakness in the links. lightning strikes close, and her clawing turns desperate, blood welling. “i can get you out of this.” “no, you can’t.” the words are gentle, warm. “i chose this. i choose this.” she screams, every inch of her trembling. “but it’s the wrong choice!” The wind rips the words out of her throat and casts them away, unheard.

iii. drake inc. headquarters. royalty stands with her as she surveys her empire, perfect envoys with soft voices and sharp eyes. “i’m scared.” says the little queen-to-be, reaching over to straighten archer’s crown. were her fingers already bloodied, or had she cut herself on the crown’s edges? the golden prince cradles his love’s hands and she realizes she can’t see where the blood starts or where it ends, only that they are all covered in it, warm and sticky and unavoidable. they wear it better than she does, with grace, with smiles. “we know what it costs.” he says with a voice like ice, moving to stand protectively between his partner and archer. “what it takes. what you are. stop pretending.” when she looks for her reflection, she sees scales and slitted eyes and sharp teeth, can taste iron and ash on her tongue.

iv. she sits fiddling with a circuit board, all live wires and hot metal. she feels it wearing away at the skin of her fingers as she works, flaying away every protective layer. still, it was only pain; it needed to work. “it’s pointless.” came a voice near her ear, dry and logical. “there’s still time.” she insisted in a whisper, voice hollow, shoulders hunching. “i can still fix it.” “you?” a scoffing little laugh cut deeper than the edge of a thin blade, pressed close to her throat. “you’re the one that broke it.” The blade breaks skin, but she can’t take her eyes off the board, won’t, not until she understands how it all connects.

v. she hears the gunshots, sees the blood spill, but no matter how hard she looks, she can’t be certain who shot first, who carries the deeper wound, who’s closer to dying, who needs to be saved. all she can see is the same dark hair, the same pale eyes, the same bloodstained smiles. “please.” she tries, but she can’t reach for both of them at the same time. “just stop, you don’t have to — ” she begs, but that just makes them go cold in the same way. they speak with one mouth, one heart, for once in agreement. “sai come finisce questa cosa, piccolo ipocrita.” she turns her gaze to the bullet casings littering the ground, pretending not to understand.

vi. she stares down into an open grave, considering the depth of the darkness beneath her feet from where she sits on the edge, swirling a glass of champagne in her hand. it was garnished with an orange, but she knew what she would taste if she put it to her lips, bitter and medicinal. “just drink it.” he suggested, placid and calm. “i already have. it was always too late.” he moves before she can find words to speak, jumping down into the grave. She tries to fight the filling of it, desperately shoveling handfuls of dirt out with her hands, but he merely lay down to await his own burial, crossing his arms over his chest. The look on his face never shifts as the rising earth slowly consumed them both: no fear, no pain, just an empty upturn of the lips.

vii. she struggles to keep balance on a high wire, legs shaking, arms outstretched. the costume she wears wasn’t made for her: tight, constricting, puffy sleeves and jingling bells. her audience is small but talkative, with eyes that never blink. “she’ll fall.” whispers the fox with glee, licking at the blood crusted around her mouth, hungry for more. “maybe, maybe not.” says the cat with the wide smile from nearby, but when she looks to him he hooks his claw around one of the wires, poised to cut it loose. the sharp bark of a dog chases him off the wire, and the voice that speaks next is like honey, smooth and sweet, hard to distrust. “it’s okay if you do. it won’t hurt.” the world slid, turned upside down, and the last thing she sees before impact is a dark-haired figure watching with a pleased smile, as if the fall is her favorite part of the show.

viii. archer looks at archer and the tech heiress doesn’t look back, instead frowning down at her phone even by her bedside, her designer clothes out of place against bareness of the hospital room, with its fluorescent lights and white walls. It was impossible to move, harder still to speak; she forces the words out anyway. “aren’t you…going to…apologize? aren’t you sorry?” tears burn at the edges of archer’s eyes; archer’s brow furrows, confused at the sudden show of emotion. “what are you talking about? i’m doing what’s best for both of us. like i always do.” archer snaps her phone shut, then stands and plucks up a pillow, pressing it down firmly over her face. suffocating herself comes easily as breathing.

[serpcntiine]

Task 2 : The Texts

"This is so fucking stupid..." Mazen muttered under his breath as he triple clicked at the number 3. "Taking goddamn forever... fucking phone... no wonder no one got anything done back then..." He continued as he hunched his shoulders even more, the tension climbing up his spine as he stood in the corner of his studio, eyes narrowing as he tried to see the microscopic text on this tiny-ass phone.

TEXT 1: Odysseus

This is Mazen. New number. Everything's fine, don't message the old one. Tell the rest.

TEXT 2: Mum

Mum, I got a new number. Please don't message the old one until I tell you to. Everything's alright. I'll be away from home for a while. Work things. Call me if you need anything, but honestly, if you could go to Thib first, that would be great. Love you.

TEXT 3: Thib

Hey, it's Maz. I got a new number. Do you mind checking in on mum when you can? Also please confirm if you received the wire. I mean it, Thib. Properly confirm, I can't receive memes as confirmation anymore.

[serpcntiine]

Task 1: The Recording

The only time he faltered was just before the door. It was just for a moment, a brief crack of his diamond edged exterior that showed the soft underbelly of a cobra. But then, his hand reached for the doorknob and twisted, walking into the room with his eyes firmly locked on the woman now before him. He sat on the chair directly opposite from her before crossing his long legs and resting his hands on his knees in a show of nonchalance. She raised a brow and gestured for the piece of paper on the table. 

Glancing down, he didn’t even take a moment to pause. 

"I, [MAZEN ASHRAF-VERHOEVEN], willingly accept my invitation into the Trial of Hearts. I enter with the full understanding that this is a game of absolutes: high risk, high reward. I acknowledge that the Trial of Hearts may result in injury — physical, emotional, or psychological - and by speaking these words, I seal my fate. By continuing, I forfeit any right to retreat or regret. I accept that only one will rise victorious, and I declare myself worthy of that title."

They shared a moment’s silence before he stood up and walked away. He was grateful that she was probably the only person who would have seen his hands shake.