(PLAYER PLOT) Storms & Souls

[necrolord]

Who: Anyone participating in the power warping player plot! This is the OPEN log.
What: A catch-all log for player plot participants.
When: 7/05 through the end of July.
Where: Throughout Trench.

Warnings: Please note cws in subject lines as needed.

[ It's time for the town-wide fallout of BOATGATE, a player plot full of murder, corruption, and vengeance. For the curious, here is a timeline of the inciting incident and here is the closed log.

Everyone is welcome to mingle in this log! You can also use the player plot content in your own logs.

The log is divided up into sections for your convenience. Feel free to start your own toplevel within a section and tag around. Thanks for playing! ]

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THE STORM

[necrolord]

[ It hits out of nowhere: an unnatural storm, with crashing thunder and rain that swings from boiling to freezing without warning. Massive waves threaten the Boardwalk and animals throughout Trench scatter in fear. Mariana is angry. ]

War of the Roses -- Lumenwood, conditionally open

[xiaoxiuya]

[Please review plotting post before joining.]

Every Storm has its Herald, and this one's way is opened with a sweltering gust of hot July air that sweeps the dust in the streets into choking clouds, rustles the leaves in the trees, and plucks a near-visible cloud of perfume from the roses that climb the walls of a certain house in Lumenwood. The cloud barges in through Shen Yuan's bedroom window, left open to catch a rare cooling breeze, and sets the man himself to coughing; Shen Yuan drops his omni onto his bed and pushes himself to his feet, staggering towards the window with the intent to close it.

His reaching hand finds the sill and jerks back, startled and wounded by a thorn protruding from a tender questing vine. He hisses, cramming the injured finger into his mouth while he glares, pulse quickening his temples and throat.

These roses --! They really are getting out of control. He's said so himself, hasn't he, to his housemate as he passed the other man on his way out the door. And Varre had just smiled, the expression clear in his voice even if he hadn't bothered to take off that stupid mask, and said good! Something something sacred, something something Mohg, Shen Yuan didn't have time to stand around and actually listen to his cultist nonsense. He'd heard enough to know that Varre wouldn't do anything about the roses, he probably intends to let them grow all over the house. And now they've started to move inside, too! Well, Shen Yuan isn't having it! He snarls and reaches for his sword.

The thumping of the wooden stairs sounds very pleasant under his boots.

But the rustling of leaves and the crack and snapping of thick stalks under Xiu Ya's blade is more pleasant still.

[blessedwithlove]

He'd been lenient with the lost little thing. Ignored the man's silly little complaints, rather than correct him. Yes, the roses climbed the house. Yes, of course, his surgery would remain on their ground floor. One fed the other, and in turn kept the place pristine. It was perfect.

In the heat of the day, he let the door to his practice stand open. And thus, he was quick to respond to the insult his leniency had brought him.

"You utter churl." He didn't shout, nor snarl. But he still spoke the words with all the feeling they deserved, grabbing for the man's wrist and pulling the knife from his belt.

"I'd intended to offer the chance to water the roses. Now you've demanded it."

[xiaoxiuya]

“You,” Shen Yuan snarls, and jerks his wrist out of Varre’s hand with a strength that would have surprised him, if he had any room left in his mind for surprise. Xiu Ya slices through the air as fast as blinking.

The knife falls to the ground. So do two of Varre’s fingers.

“You,” Shen Yuan snarls again, holding Xiu Ya’s blade up to Varre’s throat, “are never going to touch me again. Never, understand?”

Trenchwood Farm - OTA

[spiritwalks]

[One area in Feed escapes the worst of it. Trenchwood Farm's inner compound becomes as still as the eye of a hurricane.

Some Sleepers might have seen Vyng's network message. Others, perhaps more observant or spiritually-sensitive than the average person, may have instinctively recognized it as a source of shelter. Or maybe it's simply luck that allows wanderers to find safe haven during the raging storm. In any case, all are welcome here.

For much of the storm, Vyng can be found in various places: Greeting newcomers by the lamp outside the farmhouse. Observing the strange weather patterns while perched on the roof top. Meditating beneath the Guardian Tree in an effort to bolster the grounds' protection. Oh, and literally clucking and trilling with a flock chickens — many of which are adorned with crochet hats — outside the barn.

Of course, other shelter-seekers are welcome to hang out and do their own thing too. A lot of love has clearly been put into this farm, and strings of lunar-powered fairy lights running through the compound radiate a soft, inviting glow.]

A Young Teen Arrives!

[hammerbearer]

[ This young lady arrives not by lamp but on foot. The rain's already heavy but is blessedly free of extreme temperatures for the time being. Keeping pace with her running form is a brindle furred dog, a real one. Her omen is the form of the crowntail betta about half the size of the dog which swims through the air nearby.

Well, once she's clear of the storm wall and in the eye, Gaia takes a bit of time to catch her breath and look around at the farmstead. It seems a bit of a shock that the weather really does just seem to 'stop' at a certain point, leaving a peaceful inner compound. The dog seems to be a lot more at ease with the transition, sniffing around, looking alert for any threats but once it's all in the clear, giving himself a good thorough shake to shed the excess water. ]

Hey! Uri!

[ Perhaps a little too close to Gaia. She had just been lowering a pair of goggles and a hood when that little moment happened. The timing was most unfortunate.

Gaia might be a recognized figure, if from a distance for anyone that lives or regularly comes to Feed. She seems to reside there as well and has often helped many natives with tasks in exchange for goods and experience. Caught out in the storm, the chance was taken to accept the nearest offer of shelter which happened to be... well, here. ]

[eudaimonikos]

Hey!

[As promised, Michael teleports in via lamp friend after a while! He's soaked to the bone, of course - and also looks a little bit like he's lost weight? That's weird, can he even do that? Nonetheless, he seems in decent spirits.]

Don't touch me, I think I'm still boiling. How's it going here?

[ezra_of_lothal]

True to first word, Ezra shows up a few hours after his reply to Vyng's call for help. He makes a thorough circuit of the farm, checking on people, then animals, then the greenhouse.

And then back around to Vyng. "What else needs an active hand?"

POWER WARPING

[necrolord]

[ From the moment the storm hits until the end of the month, powers relating to life, death, and spirit become unreliable. ]

anakin skywalker | star wars

[facultative]

[Anakin isn't privy to the events that transpire with Mariana, but he is not shielded from the aftermath. One moment everything is the same, the next the whole world feels more. He looks at someone and he can read their lives, he gets distracted following ebb and flow of life around him and it's a struggle to ground himself in the confines of his mortal body.

When he stands outside spring follows him wherever he goes, new vegetation springing to life around him only to cycle through the rest of the seasons just as rapidly until it starts anew or to shrivel into winter when he passes.]

I've seen this before.

[Or he might be in a crowd looking, but not seeing the environment around him, and instead at their histories and futures, their secret wishes and relationships. He'll turn his gaze on your character seemingly staring straight through them. When asked what he's looking at he simply says:]

You.

[ooc: he will not retain any knowledge on a character past this month. see here if you wanted to plot something specific.]

outside

[noniad]

[The progress of miracles is not as shocking to Ortus as it once was. Living in proximity of a god and his saints has altered his perspective. He does not pause in his progress to gawk at the eddies of winter the young man leaves in his wake. He stops in amazement at the burst of unexpected bright color at his feet, the opening of petals in such rapidity like fireworks the source of his fascination.

He is coming to find such floral displays less jarring than he once did, especially as long as he keeps his black half-face veil in place to shield his eyes. He has learned more words for colors in a few months than he had in years.]

You have?

[aetherweaver]

[He's wandering outside, the warm weather reminding him a bit of home. Thanalan is warm and sunny, even if his family lives in the brush so it's a bit cooler than it might normally be. He spots... what is that, flowers? He follows the line of them to a man.]

[... Huh.]

Where have you seen this bef -

[He clutches his head as his irises go wide, the ringing in his head starting up as a scene starts playing before him, just for him.]

BROKEN RESPAWN

[necrolord]

[ For the rest of July, Sleepers can die and come back wrong. ]

Albert Wesker / Resident Evil / Vileblood / OTA - July 7th

[subject_013]

[The vestiges of the storm likely still affect the wind and the sea, whipping up whitecaps on the tide, sending waves crashing against the rocks and the sand.]

[A faint reddish glow might appear under the surface of the water, sinking out of sight, then rising again. A black-skinned vampire squid with red eyes rises, tentacles breaking the surface, before it sinks beneath the waves. A man's blond head breaks the surface. He gasps, and a wave rolls over his head, burying him under the water. A black tendril flails up from the depths, and his head breaks the surface again, spitting water. A particularly large wave lifts him, carrying him forward and throws him onto the shingle, before it retreats, leaving him there, sprawled on the sand, his limbs still tentacular. He lays there, gasping, eyes closed before he finally opens them, revealing the irises as their natural blue-grey. Even his face and form aren't the same as what most folk who know him would recognize, broader in the shoulders and chest, his face more square-jawed. But the scars and marks he has gained in this world remain. His breast bears the mark of Maul's handprint, while a scar encircles his chest near the base of his ribcage and the mark of a Y-incision tracks across his chest. A new scar encircles his neck.]

[He lays there, panting, spitting water. He tries to sit up, then sprawls on the sand. He stares down at himself, wide-eyed.]

*His* form...? Hrrr... it could be worse. It could have been that other one.

SOOTHING MARIANA

[necrolord]

[ The most powerful Pthumerian is angry, and it is up to Sleepers to do something about it. ]

i. Ablution - OTA

[unsheathedfromreality]

July in Trench was already Hell--searing heat, mad Patron, paranoid natives, marauding beasts--before the Emperor's ill-considered expedition threw the entire Sea into a rage.

Now the city's battered with boiling rains and screaming storms, and sea-Beasts pouring ashore in their hordes; now life and death themselves are turned inside-out, making every Sleeper death more precarious than before.

Word's gone out through the Disciples and their allies: Something must be done to appease Mariana. Some great ritual not seen in centuries must be enacted out on the Pthumerian Sea itself, with Sleepers to lead it--as a Sleeper was the one to offend the Sea to begin with. In Trench's best anarchic fashion, the concerned Sleepers decide on a time and place by word of mouth (Omni, Omen); and within a week after the Emperor's assault, they begin to gather on the Farthest Shore.

Those Sleepers who were last on the beach to fend against Leviathan’s arrival will find the staging grounds far more modest than those laid out for Paul’s army. There is a ritual space marked out with poles of ash and cedar down where the tide can lap at it; symbols of Mariana and the Pthumerian Sea are drawn into the sand around it and hang in swags from the poles. Elsewhere, there are sharpened knives and catch-basins for blood sacrifices and blood painting, with Sleepers assisting each other in smearing a mix of Paleblood and Vileblood over their faces and bodies to honor the Pthumerian.

A wide cordon of incense and blood-magic wards rings the area, sufficient to slow Beasts down but not turn them back entirely. Deterrence is the order of the day for Sleepers on defense; it would not do to further offend the Sea by killing her creatures wantonly. (Though Sleepers may, as always, disagree on what amounts to “wanton” killing of Beasts and monsters when other lives are on the line.)

A certain pale, nameless elven Disciple is among the first there, to greet arriving Sleepers and inquire of their contributions to the ritual. He’s also quick to question them about any offense they may have personally committed against Mariana, starting with participation in the recent attack and extending to such offenses as harvesting fish improperly. Those who confess to their transgressions, he ushers off to the nearby tidepools to be set right with the Pthumerian.

As the day winds on toward evening, the Sleepers prepare to go to sea. The jaw titan awaits to fly many of them out to the deep ocean, though those with other means of flight take to the skies on their own. Fly low, everyone is cautioned. The Pthumerians of the skies are more restless than usual, with Mariana’s storms towering up into their domain, and more prone to throwing down those who transgress on their territory.

falco grice, your ride (cw: ritualistic self harm, possible violence/monster gore)

[grice]

[ sooner or later, the sand absorbs otherwise trembling steps from an enormous, deadly seeming but possibly the most peaceful beast one could make contact with— falco grice, trapped within his titan vessel, was not a liability. fixing a fishing net across his back and tying the ends over his chest and hips, he was going to make sure everyone got to their designated location safely, and returned to shore safely. in every sense of what it was to be a shifter, today he was a pilot attending to a full house.

if one would like to help him paint himself, it is surely a large task with plenty of canvas that is readily accepted. the giant would only ask his smaller peers to pay cautious mind to his vileblood. his omen will be quick to translate his thoughts: while bountiful in the smallest cuts he makes on himself and pooled into a ready puddle dug in the sand, it carries concentrated, acidic neurotoxins and should be handled with the utmost care. diluted to be safer. do not get that in open wounds, near the eyes or mouth (unless you too are a vileblood). it’s also steaming hot, and may scald on contact.

when everyone is ready to board, falco will make it as easy as he can on his fellow sleepers; flattening himself and angling his armwings in a way that would mimic the incline of a simple hill, he will wait with all the patience in the world for your climb. if you need help, you’ll find that the blunt upper side of his beak-like mask is supporting your footing from below, and carefully nudging upward at an attentive pace. you also have an attendant that will make sure no one falls off during turbulence— he greets everyone with a joyous shrill, twirls above your head and gives you a sweet blessing that warms the very core of the soul. you’ve got this!

the takeoff does not come simply. falco gazes up at the sky plenty of times beforehand, worried, despite his best efforts to keep a sturdy and reliable base for other sleepers. the sky pthumerians are what rattle his beating heart enough for his breast feathers to quiver. with enough encouragement that his offerings of tonsil stones were enough, he climbs the rocky cliff side, and asks for sleepers to hang on tightly until they reach proper ground for him to kick from. the sand isn’t a good place for it.

in the sky is a storming, drenching hell. it’s freezing by the hand of the pelting rain that felt like stone, but furthering the frigid, horrible cold if one was not prepared for it was the wind speed. falco flies steady when he can, an exceptional pilot that always uses the winds the same way a bird would: head fixed, and body shifting wherever it had to go to keep his flight and maintain balance. his speed picks up a tremendous ton when faced with mariana’s beasts. hold on, the passengers will hear his omen say, as he avoids the winged spawns from the sea at all costs. you can’t quite tell what is thunder and what is the clap from his wing strokes. it’s not good enough, and at the rate they’re going they could miss their mark. it’s at these times that an impact may be imminent, but he braces and keeps everyone informed, especially fighters: i can’t avoid them anymore!

he is, at the end of the day— an assault unit, and he will guard the responsibility he has for these people with all four talons and both sets of jaws. ]

tidepool

[terriblepurpose]

Paul doesn't have to be told to take himself to the tidepools. He makes his way to them on bare feet, boots left behind nearer to the centre of the rough camp. He otherwise wears practical blacks, long sleeved and hooded shirt paired with light trousers, with the apparent exception a wide-brimmed, floppy, vividly green wizard's hat atop his head.

When he's by the teaming shallow waters, he folds into a cross-legged seat, waiting for his turn in the order of things. He is alone, or so it seems, when he closes his eyes against the troubled light.

i. oscar

Are you ready? He asks, his inner voice soft.

ii. merlinus

He looks up at the sound of a particular stride across the sand, blinking like one roused from sleep. He even rubs at one eye with the heel of his hand, a gesture that combines with the absurdity of his hat to diminish him into youth.

(Or maybe that's just what he looks like, shucked roughly of so much of himself. If anyone understands what that's like, it would be the avian figure approaching him now.)

"Merlinus," he says, with quiet, appropriate deference.

Peter Graham (+ 1 demon king) | ota; open to tagins or just handwavey gestures, anything goes!

[possessum]

Perhaps it's too obvious how out of place Peter seems — posture as withdrawn as he can force his tall, lithe frame to be, long arms curled in around his own middle, as though protectively. His eyes are a deer's dark eyes, held round and spooked.

This is not his battle, really. He has had nothing to do with the wrong that was done to the patron of the sea.

But he has a place, and it's beside a young witch with pale grey eyes. It's Peter's first time accompanying Luna on one of her excursions to right a wrong, to fight for those who need it, or against those who would harm another. He wants to be there, for her, with her.

Even if it couldn't be more obvious that he's nervous as he stands there with a knife in one palm, looking slowly around and just barely managing not to flinch back from it all, from what's so simultaneously alien and familiar about all of this. "They uh, don't need my blood for this, right? Since I'm Darkblood? Or... would that still help?" The question, not at all able to mask its uncertainty, is voiced to anyone nearby, as Peter timidly lifts the knife in gesture.

But there is something Else within the young man who stands before the items of ritual and sacrifice with a deep-rooted fear. Something ancient, something whose energy buzzes and convulses like living electricity, a static hum of sounds and lights. A cacophony swells like an orchestra in crescendo, and if you are sensitive to such things, you might feel it so alive beneath the boy's tense skin. The demon within Peter is so present, so sensitive to magic and so aware to the importance of this expedition, and every once in a while his dark eyes seem to flash with a spark of gold. Peter shudders on occasion, sudden rippling motions as though someone's raked the tips of their fingers down his spine; he gasps softly under his breath. At times, his eyes loll and he might sway — it's maybe a little dangerous, with the knife in his hand.....

This is not Peter's battle, but perhaps he has something more to offer than a nervous obedience to follow what the others are doing. Something great and powerful is here too, something tethered to such things as ritual and offering, and it can speak and act and protect, through the vessel that was once sacrificed to it. Utilising Peter, it will help right this wrong. Help restore balance.

...Hopefully Peter will not pass out before that can happen.

ii. Out On the Waves

[unsheathedfromreality]

After what feels like tense hours of flight–but could be far less than that, for even time seems strangely twisted by the awful weather–the celebrants arrive at the ritual site. Featureless waves lash below them, the foam-flecked indigo of the deep ocean Mariana calls her home. There is nowhere to set down–nowhere, until combined Darkblood and Sleeper magic smooth the surface of the water enough to form an undulating floor a hundred feet wide at its widest. Wind, wave, and storm resist these efforts enough to make footing perilous for unwary Sleepers, who must have all their focus on the ritual. The Beast attacks don’t abate, either, with all manner of horrors emerging from the waves even as Vyng steps forth to placate the wild Sea.

"Well, here goes."

Water churns and foams beneath Vyng's light feet. One step, then another, as the ripples cascade from beneath his boots. The elements buoy him up with ease — with the weight of Mariana's rage, and the combined efforts of Sleepers to secure the surface, what's one more Druid, if not but a single feather?

He doesn't look the part of a priest or respected Disciple: Patched-up wools that could have been fished from a dumpster. Shabby boots with scuffed toes. Wild hair blowing like a deranged windsock. A cracked walking stick, bearing a pair of antlers instead of a spearhead...and the freshly-carved names of his family along the length.

But the Shrike asked this of him. More than that, they all have a stake in fixing what's been broken in somebody's hubris. It's the right thing to do. And they've all got lives to protect.

Vyng isn't offering himself as a sacrifice. Death is meaningless here, and any suffering he could offer would be a literal drop in the sea. But he can bring peace. Respite. Empathy. The old tomes in the Archives recounted an old Druidic-type Sleeper from ages past, who danced on the shores of the Pthumerian Ocean, and leveraged her Paleblood powers to calm the area around her. Vyng doesn't have Paleblood (he's not even sure if the story is true), but he hopes the vibrations and movements of the old dance might convey their intentions...like an old friend skipping rocks across a lake, or the familiar pattern of rain tapping against a window.

If he can restore just a sliver of calm underwater, if only for a few hours, then maybe...their ragtag group will have a better shot at descending into the Underworld. To soothe Mariana more directly. And to make amends.



...Vyng pauses where he stands on the water's angry surface. After a moment, he glances behind his shoulder and shouts:

"A little back-up, please?"

(Is he talking about music? Repelling the Beasts of Mariana? Or old-fashioned moral support? Difficult to say! Most likely, that's up to you to decide.)

Peter Graham (+ 1 demon king) | ota; open to tagins or just handwavey gestures, anything goes!

[possessum]

By this point, Peter's eyes are an alien swell of black (not empty but full and glittering with something Else, something kept separated from the world around it only by the thinness of human skin and muscle.)

He won't answer to Peter, anymore. Now he is something whose power surges in the face of other ancient things, in the domain of the sea goddess. Something who was once broken down by human hands, not so very long ago. Paimon has barely remembered his own rage towards such human hands, but here, so sensitive to the energy of Mariana's upset, the demon king feels it boiling inside.

It's channeled into (by no small stroke of irony) protecting the humans (...or human-adjacent things) who have undergone this expedition. There he stands, no longer with Peter's subdued, nervous tension. Shoulders back, to his host's full height, eyes bright and alert, the demon king will keep the party safe. It is not with kindness or even loyalty to the people who are largely strangers to his spirit, but out of an understanding that each one here is necessary to fulfill a certain task. Paimon certainly knows of balance; his own functioning requires it. What has been done to Mariana must be made right. His own part to play is to help the others make sure that it is.

So he guards them — from the things that come snarling up to greet them. When the Druid begins his dancing movements and seeks "back-up" (Paimon thinks he knows what that term means, as he's watched a couple of cop dramas on Peter's Omni and it comes up a lot...), or when the others are spreading out over the slice of footing that's been smoothed out for them. The demon turns to face whatever Beasts come, eyes flashing through Peter's tangle of curls. Maybe you're in need of assistance, or maybe you can team up with him to stave something off.

Or, if someone is feeling weak for some reason, be it a natural or unnatural cause — he may turn to them instead, a hand lifting, feelers brushing along their energy to probe, to sense. What's hurting you? What's making you ill? He can help. He can provide help. You're needed, and he must keep you on your feet.

"What is wrong?"

iii. Sacrifice

[unsheathedfromreality]

At length, Vyng and his family’s efforts yield success: The Sea begins to calm and the Beasts are less wild, easier to hold off with incense and magic. The churning storm above them develops a quiet eye centered on the ritual site, and the air thickens with a feeling of invitation. The first offering is accepted; the Sea’s rage has found an outlet.

Sensitive Sleepers will quickly realize that Mariana wants them beneath the waves, within her domain itself. Whether to crush them capriciously or accept the offerings of healing, blood, and substance they’ve brought–well, one can never tell with the Patron of the Unknown, can they?

Spells are cast on those Sleepers who need air to breathe. Quick patchwork healing is dispensed to those still bleeding from Beast attacks, and what wards the Disciples determine won’t offend Mariana are cast. Thus prepared, the Sleepers slip beneath the waves–and into the clutch of a current that drags them down, down, inexorably down with all the hideous strength of a whirlpool. The Pthumerian they’ve come to see is not the goddess of the shallows only, and she will take her offerings in the heart of her domain.

Creatures begin to rise from the depths to meet them: Big-eyed luminous Sleeper squid; aquatic monsters with the winsome faces of women or gorgeous animals; and Beasts, of course and always Beasts, glowing with fascinating and hideous colors in the dark. (A shadow large as Leviathan courses beneath them, pulling currents and deep-sea fish in its wake.)

Meeting the eyes of the varied ocean denizens may prove a shock for some Sleepers, who will see Mariana herself looking out at them in all her brutal majesty. Her form drips with more blood than often depicted; the currents of her twisting whirlpool body are broken and braided unnaturally. She is injured, and what has gone wrong with Death and Life can’t begin to mend until she’s healed and given sacrifice. What do you offer? is the wordless demand.

What will you promise?

luna lovegood | harry potter | ota

[creidim]

[ The raging storm seems to calm, offering them a rare to chance to catch their breaths. They definitely aren't out of the woods yet; they still have work to do. And as she peers down between her feet at the endless deep of the ocean below her, Luna feels heavy with both reverence and dread. Even if she's let them come this far, Mariana is a capricious goddess. She might just very well choose to crush them in the dark depths.

But Mariana wants them beneath the waves, so beneath the waves they'll go. Luna checks the antler-bone knife and bottle of dittany at her side, to ensure they're both secured — her wand's already in hand, and it won't be leaving it any time soon. To anyone who'll be joining her down below into Mariana's domain, she'll look across at them with a grave expression. ]

Can you breathe beneath the waves?

Peter Graham (+ 1 demon king) | ota; open to tagins or just handwavey gestures, anything goes!

[possessum]

He's Peter again, even if not fully, and even if he's weaker by now, hazy in his stun. The demon stays with him, but they slip in and out of one another's gaze; this is the first time Peter and Paimon have ever co-existed while the demon displays his powers so fiercely. It's hard for the boy; he has to sit down at times before the descent begins, gazing widely into the water gaping below. Fear once again touches his features, and his torso tips forwards; he looks like he might be sick. He might stutter to you, mumbling something unintelligible.

But there is still work to be done. And the demon has the capability to exist indefinitely beneath the water; the king has such strong connection to it. Water is his associated element too, and to simply be near it strengthens him.

And so Peter will peel off shoes and socks and shirt and go down, be forced down, until he's floating there in the darkness, heart pounding with a rush of adrenaline and horror. He isn't— he isn't brave, not like the others. He isn't. There's an undignified squawk of startle, a sound that comes out muffled and with a rush of bubbles, and he's sputtering a few times, long limbs flailing a bit.

....He looks like he's going to try to bolt. Maybe, try to stop him.....

Or, a bit later on, when the demon has eased back into control and soothed out the stress of his frightened vessel, you're with Paimon as he hovers there in the abyss, gaze held wide and black. He suits being a creature of the deep. Something moves nearby, something huge and dark and with too many eyes, and the demon quickly grabs you, moving eerily easily through the water, even within his human constraints. He pulls you to himself with fingers held a bit too tightly, keeps you very still. It might feel as though something dangerous has snagged you, a constrictor with its coils wound around you, but it's to keep you safe from something more dangerous still. ...After all, he doesn't know if you might react to seeing a sea Beast the way Peter would, which is to scream or swim away and alert it to your presence.

Unless your mind can block such things, he will give you sounds, perhaps accompanied by images, something to act as language. Technically it's a hallucination, but you probably won't know as much. It might sound as though he's simply speaking to you mentally, several whispering voices within your head.

Beast. Ahead. No move.

CONSEQUENCES

[necrolord]

[ For those who started this— and everyone swept up in it— things could be messy. ]