#visible ooc

[graviconscientia]

>The visions, the voices, the dayterrors... everything is getting worse. They're getting worse, and there is nothing you can do to stop them.

>You wonder if there is anyone who can.

[graviconscientia]

>It has been a long light, one that has left you feeling like apologies are in order to several people. A quiet disappearance in the middle of the light, a fragmented mind through it, and a journey home after- you've heard it called "the walk of shame". The walk of overwhelming guilt and dread, more like it.

>But those apologies would be much better over breakfast, wouldn't they? You know just the spot- a bakery that makes some of the best pastries in the city, ones that would impress even a god, you think. Perhaps even good enough to keep you out of trouble for two minutes.

>You're quick to make your selections once inside, offering a smile at every point, warmth even though you are uneasy. The bakery is full of people, some picking up their meal to bring home, others relaxing with a warm drink and something sweet, enjoying the ambiance either way. Your eyes bounce around the room while you wait, and you can't help but people watch a bit, too. A young cerulean pair are laughing as they fix their coffee to their taste. An olive woman has enough loaves of bread under her arms to feed the Alternian Army, trying to figure out how to open the door with her foot. An older bronzeblood is idly eating a bagel while reading the night's news, and you are curious, as always, reading over his shoulder. He folds up the paper, and you are nearly disappointed by it, but the front page catches your eye, and you do not believe what you are seeing. You must be reading wrong. Those pictures aren't right. They can't be. But the headline reads:

Gamblignants Captain Killed; Seagrift Baryon Theton Found Dead On Ship

>His Orphaner portrait is there, dignified and pristine, alongside a photo of him as you remember him, as terrifying and cruel as he was the night he first had you, a photo of his first mate, and one last one of Mindfang- Anansi. You can't help yourself from taking the paper out from the other troll's hands, eyes wide and wild as you read every word. He was found beheaded, a garrote wire, with his chest caved in- some brutal blow before the end. Her Majesty is thrilled, you know. One less problem for Her Imperious Condescension to worry about. And one less problem for you, perhaps.

>You had hoped this night would come, where you would be free of a master, an owner who had branded you, a man who had kept you in a cage one way or another. He is dead, and you do not belong to him anymore. There is relief for yourself, sorrow for your son (his father is dead, after all), and worry that starts to creep in- death does not necessarily mean freedom from bondage. Sometimes it means a new set of hands to hold you down… Were you something to be inherited? Are there still records of ownership? Do any of them even matter? A thousand thoughts swirling about in your mind, the trance broken by the man grabbing his newspaper back from you, and a baker calling your name- exoría? exoría! snap out of it! we've been calling for you for a while? are you okay? You are not okay, of course, but you say otherwise, apologising for the paper and the wait, taking your goods quickly and out the door, but not before slapping a few caegars on the counter, and grabbing a newspaper from the stand besides the door.

>An Imperially recognised legislacerator, of course.

>There are tears in your eyes, before you even cross the threshold of the bakery, heart hammering as you teleport home, dropping everything on the counter before you race upstairs, looking for two things. One is a legal textbook, one dealing specifically with pirates and maritime commerce. Somewhere in there is a bit about seadweller property, what counts, what doesn't, what happens to a troll who is owned once their master dies. There has to be.

>The second is somewhere in your closet, something that has long been buried. But there it is, teal and red, every bit as ostentatious as you remember. It doesn't fit now, but it could, with some alterations, or perhaps with a remake. Either way, you will be sporting it soon enough. You need access to records, to text, to legal resources that ordinary trolls cannot get. But who can?

[graviconscientia]

>You had visited Cronus, for a smoke, for no reason but to relieve stress. A chat with a friend, a moment where you might be able to speak candidly with someone, anyone...

>But the moment is gone, just as quick as it arrived, and you are left with ash, and embers, and emptiness. He is a kind young man, and you are trying to offer him support and friendship- the sort you hope someone may offer you someday- but it seems so difficult to reach him. (You think, idly, that people might feel the same about you.)

>There is a moment, right before you step on the transportaliser, where you look back to Cronus, to make a promise for another meeting. There's a smile for him, but something creeps into your mind, whispers of threats made long ago, a suffocating haze that puts you back in a darkened room with a single red light, flashes of vicious memories you are not sure are yours...

>You don't know how long you've been standing there. You don't know how long your mind has been toyed with, but it is certainly long enough. You look up, into a vent grate, and are certain you see eyes behind it. Eyes you recognise. Gamzee's eyes.

>Today isn't the day to start a fight. You wouldn't be able to win it. But neither would he- you know it. He gave you his warning, but you are sure he remembers your promise, too. The next time you see him, you will kill him.

>For now, though, with a racing heart and muddled mind and tears burning in your eyes, your throat, you leave, faster than expected. But still not fast enough. The moment you reach your own room, in the home where he found you sweeps ago, you cannot stop yourself from sobbing.

[graviconscientia]

[ A large vase of flowers is randomly found in Advoca's home containing pink carnations and white gardenias nestled in teal 'touch of class' leaves. Beside it is a Tupperware of homemade macaroni and cheese, and a handwritten note:

"I've taken time to deliver the intent of eight significant heartstrings, the resonance of Love is so strong in them that despite the distance the bond in your hearts beat in perfect sync.

Happy Mother's Day, Dróttning~" ]

>You had nearly forgotten the date, gone as far as you could without remembering that there was a holiday to be celebrated. But it is a day for mothers- something you just... aren't anymore- and it is the second one in a row that you have spent separated from them.

>A tradition, now. One that breaks your heart.

>But you have other things on your mind, your heart, just as pressing as this, and all feel both so heavy, and insignificant. Everything is fine. Everything will be fine. If you keep saying it, it must be true. It doesn't feel like it is, when you are alone in your home, moving through unlit rooms like a ghost, a miserable-looking spectre wrapped in an old blanket with tired eyes and wild hair who thinks that the fix for this might be a cup of coffee.

>You do not make it fully to the kitchen, though- something has caught your eye in the dining room. Those flowers were not there before. You know it. You know every blossom that makes its way into your home; you did not bring them here. But eyes alight in recognition- someone who knows your favourite flower had them delivered to you, and knows that their meanings matter too. (A mother's love, in pink. It nearly takes you out.) You open the container of food, and that breaks the dam. This was given by someone who knows of your children, someone who knows the stories of little loves you miss so terribly, someone who knows you. But who?

>There is a card, and you open it carefully, reading it with tear-blurred vision, trying to keep it away from teal splatters. Your thumb traces over the lettering, committing every stroke to memory, and it holds a bit longer over your name. Yours, from him.

>Love, it seems, can transcend time and space. Love, too, can be made so very quickly. You do not stop crying for a while, not even when the tears have run dry and your voice turns hoarse.

[steamwright-extraordinaire]

-- Post lock set to “Private” -- Remember. You can’t afford to show them how you feel. All it does is make them hurt. Lock it away.