Homecoming

[rassafraggin]

OOC NOTE: This log is meant as reference for scene participants, and not appropriate for casual reading by non-participating players.


The location is deep but nebulously placed, a watery cavern from which darkness extends in all directions. The center has been compartmentalized by a domed structure constructed organically of whale rib, calcium carbonate, and transparent membrane. A ring enclosure permits observation by non-participants of a ritual space which glows with a clean clear illumination off sigils inscribed with Sun Kelp. The interior furnishings were left to the Feldanes' own careful specifications, with a series of visits permitted over the past few weeks via the particular Rebman mode of secretive transportation: A combination of mirror and trump travel. After a necessary application of the Sea's allowance for the air-dependent.

Lord Scribe Setao of Dafydd is determinedly present to witness and record this procedure, and see the grand quest through to its end. Representing the Temple again is Sister Teragram, graver than ever in her cowled robes. Flanking the audience are two grim Knights of Eilrahc, Sirs Leamas and Mithares. Their heavily-runed mantles, dripping religious fetishes, lend them a particularly ominous sense of purpose.

Cold current swirls through from unseen passages, but the Monarch Incognito has not yet arrived to submit to the Council-approved plans of the Lord Feldane.

Lord Setao has taken it upon himself to introduce Dashton to the Warden's appointed physician, who will be on hand to support the vessel medically while the mage is occupied with perhaps three unleashed souls. There's a bit of time to exchange professional pleasantries, too.

Murdoch arrives dressed in rather stark attire. A simple set of physician garments, white, though of a particularly comfortable fabric. Monkishly simple, but utilitarian. Cut to accentuate his slim figure. Slung over one shoulder is his black satchel containing the tools of his trade. An eyepiece dangles from his neck on a chain. He's had to dispense with his aquatic assistants, to avoid security concerns, and to maintain sterility, if such will be required. Drifting just inside after the previous modes of transit, he raises his chin and observes those in attendance. Masking his shock at the number of them with his Doctor's face. "Mmm."

Always arrive early. The Feldane is there at the edge of the cavern, staring in at the place where their work is to be performed. In his head, he is running through the procedure over and over again, drilling it in and pondering each of the things that could or would potentially go wrong. At his side, he carries a small leather bag with an assortment of tools and supplies that may be required for the job, each of them carefully prepared for use below the waves. The sudden bit of noise behind him wakes him from his current line of thought and his head swivels to look upon Murdoch. It takes an extra second or two, but a warm warm smile then forms. "Ah, why hello there. Murdock of the Badlands, it is good to meet you. Lord Dashton Feldane. Just Dashton for the evening, hmmm?"

Murdoch settles on using his legs like a top-sider and immediately strides over to offer his hand to Dashton. A polite smile forming, and a nod of his head, equivalent to addressing another medical specialist. There is a moment to do a little measuring of course. Dashton has his tools of the trade, and Murdoch has his. It helps add to Dashton's image, in Murdoch's eyes. "Dashton it is then. Please, if you will, the same courtesy, Murdoch will be sufficient. These are interesting times, are they not? If I was deeply religious...and we seem to have some of those in attendance, I'd say some very strong currents of import are about us this day."

Dashton takes a few bounding steps of his own to close the distance, albeit at a rather relaxed pace. His smile broadens slightly and his hand stretches out to meet Murdoch's without hesitation. He offers up a soft, but confident sort of shake with a hand that is not as soft as one might expect of a Feldane aristocrat, as he carries himself. All that gardening, no doubt! Nodding his head, some amusement creeps into his expression, "Indeed, it is. A far cry from the Feldane gardens for me, I would say." Nodding again, he turns his head to give a quick glance to those in attendance. "Mmmmm. Quite right. Though, a little faith, in the right hands at the right moment can be rather useful." There is a pause of a perfectly appropriate amount of time before he continues, "Have they given you a rough outline of the plan as of yet?"

Murdoch tightens his smile and completes the hand-shake greeting. He notes the practical texture of the clasp shared, updating his assessment of the new acquaintance as he goes. Murdoch's own speaks of what his profession probably demands, though he lacks callouses or as strong a grip. "I must admit to some professional...hesitation over the plan. My ignorance is the source of such, regarding your House's particular skills. I'm sure it'll be an experience, though you must know the creed that runs through the blood of all physicians...to preserve life. You'll not see me interfere with your business during critical operations that are your responsibility. This will certainly test my gut instincts, I'd wager."

From the dimness of the cavern's edge, another trump arrival is heralded by a floating shimmer. Details materialize as a small group moves into circumference of light from the enclosures, slowness indicating more of the ceremonial rather than reticence. This could very well be Moire's last hour of consciousness, of life, and if that is a maudlin thought, it is also a true one. Her last walk of her last hour, then, shall be composed and dignified. Her vessel is outfitted and adorned as a Queen's consort, though she has with her two true escorts in Lady Maggie and Prince Martin.

Closer, Sir Leamas nods low by the entrance to the dome. Your Divine Majesty, he says with gravity, before greeting the others proudly. The Queen inclines a look, then looks to the central chamber, the Feldane necromancer, and the Lethem surgeon. Closer... closer.

Dashton nods understandingly, pursing his lips in the process. "Certainly, certainly. Necromancy is not a mystical art that many care to acquaint themselves with. In the end, we both have the very same goal in mind today. Mine is not normally the job of taking life, but simply tending to it once it has passed. Today, we will keep the scales balanced. I will be keeping Death's Door firmly shut for the duration of the procedure." Another sharp nod is delivered at the last bit from Murdoch, "Excellent. When the time comes, I will need your assistance to ensure we revive the Warden promptly. Best not to leave things such as that to chance." The new entrance has him turning about, already picking up on the social cues around him even before seeing... "Your Majesty." The Feldane dips into a deep bow then and holding it for a long moment before returning to his usual posture.

Murdoch bows at the waist, directing his eyes towards the cavern floor. No pressure or anything. It's just the most powerful people in Rebma. He straightens and takes a moment to thread his fingers back along his temples. He murmurs grimly to Dashton, "I do hope nothing is to chance, for our sakes. Rather our hands and minds are the determining factors."

Passing slowly by solemn expressions and genuflection from her subjects, Moire's attention lingers with quiet affection on the Rebmans. Lord Setao, the last, attempts to look unconcerned as he nods, but a hand to his shoulder from his Queen and he has to gulp down an plaintive utterance. Arriving before Dashton and Murdoch, she draws a deep breath into her impressive borrowed lungs, and a smile of readiness and acceptance is given. "Lord Dashton. Surgeon Murdoch. Where do you want us?" Us, including Martin, her grandson heir, and Maggie, the Warden's spouse. A promise to acquiesce to the appointees' judgment.

Maggie has, of course, arrived with Moire and Martin. She is dressed in high Rebman fashion, though stands as any flatlander would. She keeps her hands folded in front of her lest she grab either Moire's hand or Martin's. Judging by the paleness of her knuckles, she is holding tightly to herself. Still, to her credit, that is the only expression of her nervousness. The two medical gentlemen are awarded smiles and silent 'thank you's for their participation and assistance. Then, her attention centers on Moire within her borrowed finery. A faint huff escapes, though her eyes remain clear and calm.

Dashton takes in a deep breath of water and nods once toward Moire. A hand escapes to sweep over toward the available padded chair, which seems to be a rather comfortable looking thing that can also be quite functional for their needs with a level on the side able to turn it completely flat in a quick turn. A small table rests on either side of this and the other for her original Vessel. "If you would?" Looking to Maggie, he replies to the smile with one of his own and a dip of his head. Already heading in the direction indicated, he flips open his bag of supplies and begins rifling through it. A small, sealed bottle is withdrawn as he looks to the Queen. "When I have sealed Death's Door and it is safe to do so, drinking this will begin the process. It will be quick and painless, though it will feel a bit odd. From there, I will need you to follow me to your original Vessel. Listen for my voice." The bottle is then set down on the small table beside the chair.

RPG: Dashton declares that he has the Blood of Feldane (BLD-FE) gift.
RPG: Dashton declares that he has the Sense of Life (LIF-SL) gift.
RPG: Dashton declares that he has the Death's Door (DEA-DD) gift.
RPG: Dashton declares that he has the Intimidating (PPL-IN) gift.

Murdoch ventures over near the chair to inspect, but gives it quite a bit of personal space. His own satchel is shifted upon his shoulder and the clasp removed to expose the innards for easy access. He polishes at the slim eyepiece dangling from the chain about his neck. The distortion of the lens speaks over a magnifying quality. He observes the via from a distance, and grimaces slightly at the wording ..quick and painless.. He delves into satchel once more for a coral pumice to clean his already spotless hands.

RPG: Murdoch declares that he has the Barber-Surgeon (LIF-BS) gift.
RPG: Murdoch declares that he has the Back-Alley Doc (LIF-BA) gift.
RPG: Murdoch declares that he has the Observation (SKL-OB) gift.

Maggie tries not to fidget where she stands with Martin. However, as Moire is given instructions, Maggie steps a half step forward only to stop and take Martin's arm. He won't mind. He is dashing that way. Her attention remains focused on the principles as the doctorly types get into position. Knowing that she will not be able to see what is happening on a spiritual level, she still angles for the best possible viewing spot even if that means tugging Martin along as she shifts.

RPG: Maggie declares that she has the Observation (SKL-OB) gift.
RPG: Maggie declares that she has the Spark (FIR-SK) gift.

Moire deigns not to study the chair and accessories closely, but instead to spare a last glance for her loved ones, their goodbyes already drawn-out before taking transport to the catacombs. "It will be as you say," she nods to Dashton, and enters the sanctum without further delay. The light from the sigils burnishes the pearl and metal accents of her mantled attire as she goes, gleams bright through Merrisol's hair. Illumination is, of course, mostly for the benefit of the spectators and wary guardians, not those who see through an arcane filter. The chair, custom-built to his height and breadth, cradles the Monarch, and she fastidiously arranges herself to ensure a good-looking corpse.

Dashton shrugs out of his coat and is about to hand it off to one of the Knights when he catches himself. Oh right. Not the help. The Feldane aristocrat smoothly recovers and wanders further back to drape it over another small table there. "I will be right there to guide you from end to end. A short walk, I assure you, and we will take it together." The cuffs of his shirt are then undone as he begins to roll them up. Turning back toward Moire, he takes in a deep breath again and lets it out while blinking his eyes to now open them to the realms of both Life and Death. His eyes turn to inky black orbs, each with spots of purple, spectral energy showing where his irises had been. The warmth and color drains from his body, leaving him in the cold, pale tones of a corpse. Still, through all of this, he manages to wear that same warm smile as before as he begins walking toward Maggie. A hand slides into his bag, withdrawing another bottle, which he holds out for her to take. "Some tea for you. If you might provide the heat to brew it?" He pauses a moment, nods once, and then turns back toward the Queen to rejoin her. A long blink is issued and then he is barring Death's Door with a bit of will. "The way is closed and we are safe. Are you ready to proceed, Your Majesty?"

RPG: Dashton declares that he has the Inquisitor (LIF-IN) gift.

Murdoch gets tense. Under the facade he projects, he's concerned, and something about the Feldane makes him want to take a step back instinctively. As Murdoch's eyes narrow, they attain a bluish cast, observing not just Moire, but Lord Dashton's own vitals with Mandrake sight. He resists his instincts to demand the composition of the draught and tucks it away in favour of a more clinical detachment. Murdoch frees his hands and clasps them before himself while he observes.

Watching, Maggie is a bit startled when Dashton approaches her with that offer. Perhaps she forgot his promise, but she is grateful that he did not. She accepts the tea, a warm smile on her lips. She offers a very quiet, 'thank you', then raises her other hand from Martin's arm. Before lifting that hand, she steps away from her cousin. Taking a spot a safe distance from everyone, she lifts her gaze to be sure that there is nothing above her that might be harmed by a brief flash of heat. When she is sure that all will be as well as it can be, she raises her hand to the vial. A brief flash of orangey-red light, a lingering fwoosh of steam and bubbles that rise into the sea above and the tea is decidedly vertical. When it is drinkable, she lifts it to her lips as she returns to Martin's side. Down the hatch, as they say aboard submarines and the drink has been swallowed.

RPG: Maggie declares she is consuming token fjp:
-------------------------------------------------------------------[ fjp ]----
Author: Maeghan Held By: Maggie
Date: Tue Nov 28 15:56:35 2017 Focus: 3
Title: Prepard Ritual Tea
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Created via Medium (DEA-ME): neardead power-token special token-3 type-magic
Gift description:
The necromancer has learned a method to bring the living into communication with the dead. This can be a macabre ritual, a potion, or something similar that related to the character's background and techniques. This method is represented as a 3-point token, describing the method in detail. It can be given to another character, who then performs the ritual/consumes the potion/etc, and can speak with the dead spirits for the duration of a scene.

This speech requires that the corpse be available or the spirit of the dead being be present through some other means. What information the dead can provide depends upon an OOC agreement between the player and the players involved in the dead character. This is a vehicle by which other players may make information known, or prove the truth of a happening, or something along those lines. This ability is NOT intended as a way for the character to proactively ferret out information.
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Token Description
A specially designed bottle for underwater use features a one-way spout often seen on bottles below the waves. In addition to this, there is a second component, designed to connect and match the seal on the top, which would ordinarily be for drinking. Within this is a specially prepared set of dried plant leaves and other ingredients carefully selected for this Feldane ritual to speak to the dead. When the ritual is to be performed, the two pieces must be connected to brew a special tea. Once the brewing is completed, the top piece may be removed and tea consumed.
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They were prepared for this, the Priestess and the Knights. All three of them have Seen Some Things of late. Smited those Things some, too. Sister Teragram still closes her eyes in determined meditation, while Sirs Mithares and Leamas exchange narrowed glances, once the Feldane dares open himself to that Sea that lies beneath all Seas.

The cavern has been diligently cleansed by the palace adepts and clerics, from the center out to every distant wall and every barred passage. By Dashton's sight, neither the false spirits, the Boneless Ones, nor the Lost, nor the Condemned, intrude upon the space currently. But Rebma is where the Past itself goes to die, and in the Deeps there is always the promise of death, of dying. In Dashton's sight, the monochrome currents connecting all of the Great Labyrinth pull and push and try to bring back what was sent away.

Moire reclines as well as she might, gazing straight ahead and taking those deep breaths still. Savouring. If she has taken note of the offering of refreshment to Maggie, it can no longer be her concern. Martin is there and entirely willing to stab wrongful poisoners. "I am, Lord Dashton," she replies, lifting one hand to receive her vial.

Murdoch does step forward now. The concern evident, poking through his professional mask. The professional and ritual measures taken are something he takes some comfort in, but there's so much foreign to him in the Feldane arts. "Interesting. Yes." His bluish-tinged eyes widen fiercely to observe all. His jaw set hard, arms hanging by his sides. The hands do not shake. He frowns over some of what he sees. A bit of revulsion coming now. More questions and concerns, but he does not interfere. "Tread well."

"Then so it shall be. It is, of course, an honor to walk with you today." Reaching out, Dashton takes up the vial for her and slides it into her hand with a bow of his head to accompany it. The Feldane's eyes swivel, visible in those small spectral flames turning upward to focus on Murdoch. "Let's be ready, Doctor. Now is when things get interesting." Is there a glimmer in his eye? No, certainly not! Must be a trick of the light. Perhaps a wisp of heated water wandered over from where Maggie prepared her tea. A glance is given about the room, appraising it once more before his gaze finally settles upon Moire to watch her passing. The waiting is always the trickiest part...

Maggie's eyes do not go black as Dashton's, nor black as a moonless midnight, but they do silver toward a deepening dusk. She returns to holding Martin's arm, though the squeeze might be a bit more than before. Her complexion fades a bit, the ruddiness of nervousness traded for a pallor that hints at parchment or old snow. Her freckles, acting contrarywise, as is their wont, glow with a faint golden sheen against her skin. Her focus skips past Dashton, past Murdoch, returning with unerring certainty to Moire and Merrisol's body.

Seeing his cue in appearance of the serum, Lord Setao steps away briefly to signal towards the cavern's edge, which is acknowledged by a glimmer of mirror reflection. "The true form of Her Majesty has been sent for," he informs those in the observation ring. "The deep slumber will break in transport, and it will be vital upon arrival that the Lord Feldane is ready to facilitate the transfer."

Moire contemplates the small container she now holds, and flickers a glance to the blood-drained face of her deliverer. "Where you lead, I shall follow... when the souls of Lord Merrisol are accounted for within this vessel, Lord Dashton. That is the last promise I must keep." The words are soft and meant for only Dashton and Murdoch, and conveyed as solemnly as a new oath. With that, she tips the unstopped vial against Merri's lips and allows the contents to flow through him in one swallow. Taking the robust health of the Warden into account, it must certainly be a potent brew. Even so, the seconds dribble past after the bottle comes down, laid to rest upon one leg. Moire takes a breath. Then another, on the cusp of an inspiration, drawn in a shudder. Sitting up slightly and reaching up and back, she gingerly touches a spot at the nape of Merri's neck, where the toothed circles of a small, unobserved tattoo seem to drag into rusty movement.

Leaning in closer, the Feldane inspects the tattoo. "Hmmm. How very sneaky." Dashton smirks slightly and shakes his head, looking to Murdoch while stepping to the one side of the chair. "The restraints. Let's opt for some caution on this. Nothing to chance, hmmm?" Reaching out, he sets to pulling a loop from the chair, slipping it around Merrisol's hand in a quick movement, then giving another end a tug to tighten it. His head turns then to the others as he says, "Nothing to worry about. Possibly a small delay, but there are some fall-back methods, should it come to that." Turning back to Merrisol, he is watching closely, even to the point of leaning in, as he pays careful attention to how this tattoo is doing against his rather carefully selected poison.

Murdoch stands by as the ritual continues. Listening carefully, and giving a small nod in understanding, for his part. Holding his breath while he watches the conscious decision to drink the from the vial. But then, what's this.. Och cranes his neck to observe the Queen's gestures. He blinks hard and then stares with his life sight. "Is this expected? What is that. Alchemical...?" Murdoch's not very satisfied with his own conjecture and moves to help secure the patient to the chair with what is provided. He crouches to try and spy on the source of the odd phenomena as well.

Martin watches, supervising the procedures to be there for anything. After all it is his grandmother and his best friend on the line. He comforts Maggie, strong and certain that the most important people in his life are strong and will prevail.

Maggie's eyes flicker from Moire's face to Martin and back again. Martin is given a wan smile that still holds more warmth than trepidation. When Moire moves, Maggie's attention snaps back to the proceedings. When Dashton begins to restrain Merrisol, Maggie almost surges forward to stop him. Luckily, Martin is there to keep her calm or who knows...? Murdock's reaction sparks more curiosity in her, helping to banish the rush of adrenaline. Breathing slowly, she seeks balance or certainty. It isn't fear that rises, though there is some of that. It is... impatience. Perhaps. Anxiety. Anticipation and... Okay, let's call a spade a shovel. There is some fear coiling around the core of her being.

Moire is still contending with the idea of the innocuous bulls-eye turning out to be a failsafe, unremarked and undocumented. Straps go on and tighten with not a blink of reaction, as a conflict twists within that precedes even the hint of discomfort. "No," she murmurs. Pupils dilating as a strange temptation presents itself. The circles tick around, fraction by fraction... then stop. "I shall give or receive no more promises." Whoever that was meant for, the feedback is a wrench thrown where things should have proceeded smoothly. The poison returns, seizes the restrained vessel, throttles it, slams it back. But at least one assurance was kept. It is swift. Merrisol tenses back against the pads of the chair, then melts into it. His eyes trend to the side, beyond Murdoch and Dashton, where Martin and Maggie are waiting. The shapes and colours of the world and the people blur to shapes of grey. Then, no shapes at all.

Dashton is admittedly a bit fascinated by the workings of this tattoo. He is staring at it, boring holes clean through Merrisol's neck as he watches it work. "Perhaps it employs something similar. Reminiscent of... Cibola? All packaged in a nice little tattoo. Fine work, I must say. Would love to pick the artist's brain." Of course, then the fight ends, the tattoo stops moving, and the poison kicks into high gear all at once. The Feldane snaps upright as the moment of passing comes, watching it all happen as he reaffirms a clear will that Death's Door ought remain closed. "Your Majesty? Focus on my voice, if you would. I need you to stand with me now."

Martin keeps his emotions in tight control, being the solid rock that Maggie can depend on. Whatever happens, he will be there for her. He wants to step forward, to touch and make sure there is still life but he will trust the feldane and that luck is on their side. "It's not over yet." He assures Maggie gently and tries not to distract either Moire or Merrisol with his concerns.

Murdoch was expecting the poison to work in the way of toxins. That it was delayed, or held at bay, is astonishing. It makes the resurgance appear almost like a dam bursting, to him, and summons unsettling feelings. He falls back on his clinical detachment to remain professional in the face of this. He spares a moment to glare at Dashton, perhaps because of his different perspective and understanding of death, that the Surgeon cannot fathom. He exhales audibly, seeing the lights go out. A sound of frustration.

When Maggie is made aware of what it is that is interfering with Moire's progress, she almost shudders. Her thoughts go out to the only tattoo artist she knows. Maybe there is a conversation in the forgemistress' future. Drawing in a breath, she grits her teeth when the poison takes hold and Moire slams back into the chair. She tries to keep her expression calm, serene, warm, when she spots that last, lingering, dying look. Her gaze lifts and tracks to Murdock first, sympathy and a kind of companionable understanding there. Then she turns to Dashton and back to Merrisol's unmoving body. If she tightens her hold on her cousin, it is unintended and necessary. Thank goodness he is here.

At the same time, a rainbow shimmer in the outer cavern precedes hurrying figures, gliding in straight bounds towards the bone enclosure. Two Royal Guards, with a shell gurney between them, a supine form upon it, half drifting itself from the streaming mint-coloured hair which catches the currents. A natural urge towards decorum slows the delivery, however desperate, as they are admitted through to the ritual space with the Queen of Rebma, appearing to sleep through it all. From there, they act on Dashton's orders.

Dashton spares just a glance toward the entrance, making sure that these newcomers are expected and not uninvited guests. Satisfied, he whips his head back around and relaxes upon seeing Moire there, tossing a rough gesture over toward the other chair opposite the one Merrisol rests (now peacefully!) in. A small bow is quickly executed as he calls out in a more pointed tone, infusing it with the speech capable of reaching into her realm. "Your Majesty, Moire, Queen of Rebma. Honored as I am to meet you as you are, I am afraid we are a touch pressed for time. Please follow me now to your own, true Vessel." A sweeping gesture is made over toward the seat that is, no doubt, being occupied at that very moment.

RPG: Dashton declares that he has the The Dead Speak (DEA-SP) gift. Use '+gift DEA-SP' to view the gift description. Last edit: 100 months ago.

To Dashton and now Maggie, their sight altered to view the bleak and desaturated realm of death... Moire had departed briskly at the moment of multi-organ failure. But with no Door to be drawn to, she lingers over the body, rippling, hesitant. A certain echo of her determination seems to help her disregard Dashton's invitation to come to him immediately. Then a pale sparking occurs as two more souls tumble upwards, in a synchronous fashion, as though conjoined. They turn end over end, curled around and tangled. A dark fuzzy shadow, like a long wavering cord appears in this grey world of death. It gives Dashton the impression of a former necromantic lien, the sort of hitch that crawls out of the woodwork just as property gets ready to change hands. Like a long, long, presumptuous finger, the shade points to the souls of Sorensen and Lirre as they are finally expelled from the vessel and exposed.

The Guards-cum-Orderlies are lifting Moire from the half shell, which would be a simple feat but for the long mane of hair that goes on and on, cascading over all sides of the operating chair. Once the Queen is respectfully arranged, the Rebmans retreat from the ritual area warily, careful not to go anywhere near the empty spot where Dashton and Maggie seem to be intently staring. Above and sort of to the side, from Merrisol. His head is lolled to the right, and doing that fixed staring bit that people like to mess around with in the picture shows.

Murdoch looks over towards the body of the Queen. His enhanced vision playing over her form automatically as it's delivered. He cradles one elbow and lightly taps at his lips with one finger. The seconds passing feel like they're stretching like cephalopod limbs. "Gone." Murdoch intones gravely, commenting on the state of both bodies. Without the aid of spectral peepers, all that registers to him is the absolute loss.

Maggie's hand leaves Martin's arm, her arm falling almost heavily to her side in order to avoid reaching forward with intent. Her expression turns from determined to tentatively entranced. The urge to rush to Merrisol's side is curtailed by a steadying, if trepidatious need to speak to the souls coming all a tumble. She parts her lips, then glances toward Dashton. The gestures might seem odd to those who cannot see the souls. Moire in her determination and the two who make up one tumbling all akimbo are shivery-not-there in the purely alive world. Softly, then, she murmurs, "Now?" to the Feldane.
Martin has connected.

The Queen's metabolism, accordingly to Lord Setao, had been ritually suspended to such a state as to physically resemble a medically-induced coma. Recently, the Mandrake effort has repaired multiple systems from the brink of failure, so that the Rebman monarch's body is officially no longer dying, and in fact is running on the life energy donated by the healing team. Now that the stasis magic has been broken, the systems of the body appear to be reviving - all that is missing is the all-important essence, and with it, that spark of consciousness.

Dashton's eyes narrow as he focuses on that shade that has appeared in view. Moving to his side, his hand hovers near the Feldane blade he had brought with him while his eyes move to Moire, then the pair of souls that had also escaped Merrisol, then back to that shade. He frowns for just a moment, then schools his expression back to something unreadable as he turns his head to Maggie to nod. "Indeed. Now is the time." He steps closer to Moire to be close enough to assure some level of safety from this thing while turning to the others with eyes still forward. "Her Majesties true, full name. Would anyone be able to provide it?"

Martin places his hand on Maggie's shoulder, steadying her. "Let them work," he responds quietly. The reality of the situation is weighing heavily upon him but they must see it through, to the end. Whatever that end might be. "They are both strong. They know we're here." Then he realizes no one else knows Moire's name(s). "She is Daughter of Moins, granddaughter of the first queen Manawydan of the great and true bloodline of Lir, he who watches over the Sea. Supreme Royal Majesty Moire of Rebma."

Murdoch almost misses Dashton's movement towards the handle of his sword, and can't ascertain why. Perhaps part of the ritual, or another unexpected phenomena, like the delayed toxin effects. The question has him directing his attention towards Martin, and his answer.

In the deathscape, the rippling of the Queen's hair enshrouds her, a flowing gown that unfurls the longer she floats without anchor. She extends her long slim arms downwards to connect with the stunned duo, as though to gently shake them awake or sort out the twister tangle of their years of double-occupancy in a single vessel.

The shady tendril thrums along its pathway, extending off in a certain direction across the cavern and into the gray dimness. The undulation flicks like a whip upon the gathering of errant souls.

"Oh no you don't. Your Majesty, I must insist that you come with me this very moment." The sudden snap of the tendril has Dashton shuffling forward a bit more quickly as he looks off in the direction from which it comes. His sword comes out, releasing with it a wave of faint spectral whispers all about the cavern. The Feldane's path moves to one end of the tendril as he passes the blade through it in hopes of severing it. Meanwhile, he gestures off in the direction from which it comes, "Where does that lead to?"

Maggie darts Martin a quick, warm, but distracted look as he speaks to her, then provides Moire's long and glorious name with all of her titles. That is worth hearing, she decides. Even with only half of her attention it is a wonder and a burden. When he finishes, she flashes him a look that is a combination of 'I know what I am doing' and 'I am so sorry'. This can't be good. Looking back to the great unknown where three beloved souls remain, she draws breath to speak. And then, of course, things happen. Her gaze moves from Moire to something dark and fearful. Her intent is to speak, but the words echo in her head more loudly than the whisper that escapes her lips in the real world. Her mental tone is focused on the Queen's soul first and she adds urgency to her tone, "Go with Lord Dashton, dear Moire. You have fulfilled your promise and I thank you." Turning to the other two, the souls of two who make up one. Just before she speaks, she pauses to watch something unusual happening in the spectral realm. Drawing a mental breath, she projects to both of those others. Her mental tone holds love, longing, desire and... a touch of fear, "My All. I cannot undo what was done to you to bring you to me. What happened to you was horrible and unfair. You were never asked what you wanted or how you wanted to proceed." She talks a half step forward, "So, now, with Lord Dashton's help, I can offer you the choice denied you. If you chose to return to your shared body, return to me, I will rejoice it is true, but it is not your only option. You can allow Lord Dashton to settle Her Majesty and then lead you through the Door. If you choose that way, then I will respect that and love your memory." She knows that they know what she wants, but true to her intent, she does not try to influence their decision. Not now that they have the freedom to make the choice for themselves.

Murdoch frowns, potentially only having one half of a conversation. From what he can glean, it sounds as things are progressing, but not without complications. He checks on the state of the two bodies every so often, looking for signs of life, or evidence of an occupant. "I do not know where that leads specifically." indicating the tunnel. "Is something amiss?"

Martin can't look into the spirit world, so he really doesn't know what is going on. He seems a little uncomfortable when he clears his throat and grudgingly acknowledges the great beyond. "Merrisol, if you can hear me? The choice is yours but you will forever be in Rebma's heart. I" he ahems, "really miss you. And Grandmother, allow yourself to be settled. You are needed much more than I could ever say." He's confident that his friend will choose the right path.

In the Deathosphere, Moire draws back from the flickering threat of the spectral appendage, made fully aware of its presence, and her form swirls with the haunted version of anxiety. At the moment of Dashton's call out, she snaps to, staring in the direction wherefrom his voice emanated. She gestures demands; her mouth moves, but the projection of sound eludes her. Evidently she is fixated on seeing one task done before the other, contrary to the team's list of priorities.

The lash of the shade stings the brother souls into activity, long-limbed figures of men unfolding, dreamlike, still half in slumber. The ectoplasmic whip cracks again, coursing like a wave to crash among the duo... except Dashton steps in, the bone blade striking into the targeted path.

Black light energy radiates from the contact, a shockwave that sends a ripple outwards through the ritual space, creaking through the whalebone scaffolding. Sister Teragram and the Knights of Lir drift backwards a step, then stand firm, prayers slipping from their lips. Prepared to come to the Feldane's aid in any way they can.

The spirit of Moire ripples back, swirling in her own tresses, turned about and upside down in the cavern. It is Maggie's voice which she then hears, turning again, following it back to the center. Her gaze wanders over Maggie for a second, and then she is hovering over to Dashton.

Lord Setao is scratching away at his glass tablet, agog over the urgency of the events, barely looking down to mind his lines. When nobody else offers a clear opinion on the cavern's orientation, he stammers out, "Su... South and southwest, Lord Dashton! That way lies the wilds of the realm!"

Having struck the blade, the lash lingers still, aware of Dashton's intervention, and then, aware of him now.

"Indeed. I would say a meddling Sea Hag, if I were a betting man. Be at the ready, we will need to work swiftly..." Dashton's head turns slightly to Lord Setao and he issues a quick nod, "If you have any ways of blocking or interrupting her interference from that way, it would be helpful." His head swivels again, managing a small smile toward Maggie for a moment even as he works to track Moire's movements and those of the lash. "Your Majesty." The Feldane then utters the full name provided by Maggie, very pointedly, and with his free hand, gestures toward her Vessel. "I call you by name and tell you to walk now in the direction I point toward your body." He takes a step to the side and back, slipping into a duelists stance, still pointing toward her body. A quick shuffle forward is executed, an artful flick of the sword in a figure eight, and he is striking at the lash once more.

Floating side by side, the souls of the half-Rebman brothers cringe from the whip, having received its message loud and clear the first time. Even without the aid of the Feldane, there would be no Door for them. They are gaining distinction, features now different enough for Maggie to know which is Sorensen and which is Lirre. The latter angles towards the sound of her voice as she speaks to both of them, and he approaches her. Pale sparks appear to sizzle in the growing space between his form and Sorensen, who follows more sedately, while casting distraught glances towards the interrupted menace of the spectral lash.

Lirre halts before Maggie and reaches into the space she occupies. A coolness passes over her shoulder, touches her bones. Sorensen whirls at that, head cocked and staring towards her now as well. A voice, no, two voices in turn, well in her chest, to sigh from her own throat. "If not for the Sea Hag.. the Empress.. the Ending.. I would not have departed.. I would have stayed.. I will never, I will never.." The last bit is a fading garbled whisper, "..leave you."

Murdoch tests his footing after feeling the force move through the area. His eyes searching about with major concern, and then focusing on Lord Setao's helpful information. "What in the abyssal was that?" Regretting the absence of his finned and toothy assistants, he faces the southwest. He's come prepared for medical care, and not defense, and that means staying where he is.

Moire is already halfway home, whether it is Dashton's direction, Maggie's urging, or whether her grandson's special voice really can travel beyond the boundaries, or it is a transcendent sense of her own purpose and duty, she leans and drifts and reaches out to the slack figure on the chair, her twin in vibrant colours.

Maggie stands where she is, eyes lifted to the two brothers. She does not shiver at the touches within despite their chill. The words that sound within and whisper from her lips are so sweet to hear, to know, to live. Tears are lost to the sea though her smile is beyond warm. Though she would never say that the past months were without joy, without delights, the warmth that is rekindled within her heart is brighter than it has been in nearly a year. She stands taller, her hands reaching toward the two, "Come home, my darling." Maybe it is not two or three, but four who are coming back to life in this moment. For now, she is ignoring the danger that Dashton senses.

PG: Dashton challenges a difficulty of 11. Dashton chooses Grace and the gifts DEA-BN, FGT-RE, SKL-AR, SKL-WS, STY-MH, and STY-SW. Dashton succeeds.

Like the tongue of a serpent, the lash feints and coils before Dashton, darting out in flickers to strike again at the vulnerable souls. It is no easy feat to manage swordplay in the Deeps, with each move against the water's own resistance sapping energy and accuracy. That doesn't appear to be an obstacle today, as every pattern of the bone blade swishes into place for the parry and riposte, denying the monstrous reach of what must be a death pact, come to collect its fare, long overdue.

Dashton works in rapid shuffling steps, utilizing reaches to stretch out while keeping some firm ground beneath him. Even in the water, he manages graceful movements by working the blade much like a rudder to guide it about with precision. The Feldane mixes in a touch of the Sukhoti style of fighting, making sure it could not creep past with blindingly fast strokes. Finally, it comes to a conclusion with a lunging strike that takes it down the length of the tendril to bisect it along a path to its core. The moment the fight has concluded, he is back in action. The blade spins rapidly to find a home at his side again and he is digging through his bag. "Doctor, would you mind beginning with the Warden? Directly in the heart. An antidote I had for a backup. I will be back with you momentarily to assist." Out comes a rather large looking needle, pre-loaded and with a cover about it, which he passes off to Murdoch with a nod on his way to rejoin Moire on her journey to her body. "You are almost there, Your Majesty!"

Murdoch moves to complete the hand-off of the instrument. Even with Dashton's reassurances, there is a pause while he observes the item. The rather remarkable swordplay was impressive, with the movements and after-blurs still playing upon the retina. His fingers slip around the instrument and he holds it aloft to gauge the level of liquid and whether there are bubbles or a complication lurking inside, and strides towards Merrisol's body. "So.. people and poisons are equal targets to a Feldane for neutralization. Both macro and micro." he drones almost nasally, but not dismissively in the slightest, lining up the point of the needle directly over where the heart should be. With surety, he pushes the needle in.

On the Death-o-Vision, the Queen of Rebma now bears no distraction or doubt, the journey of a dozen steps in the corporeal world made with deliberation, spirit-side. She is an expansive presence with her cloak of hair and her wisdom, a truly old soul, ready for another round with the living.

Lirre and Sorensen flinch with each dark flash off the confrontation between necromancer and tormentor, though it never comes near enough to flay more strips from their spirit bones. The final blow to that extension from the dark beyond splits it asunder, and dislodges something that sends them both fading back and pivoting to gaze in Dashton's direction, aware of a burden lifted. Not banished, though. Transferred, perhaps?

Exchanging a glance charged with silent, brotherly understatement, the souls return to the place of their release. The sparking lines between them are thin, fine as metallic filaments, but are now not the glue that binds one to the other. By the time Murdoch is leaning over their home, that much-contested property, a syringe stuck deep into the stilled heart, they are both looming in on both sides, intent on the re-possession.

Maggie watches her Kerf as his souls aim for his body, then moves forward. She does spare attention for Moire's journey as well, to see that all happens as it should. She takes a moment to look at the Queen, to send warmth and encouragement her way. There is love there, too but of a different sort than held for Merrisol. The dancing, swashbuckling Feldane is an astonishing, distracting sight to see even when she can see the whiplike nastiness he fights. When he slashes it down the center, she stills for a heartbeat, eyes wide as memory superimposes one sight on the other and she whispers a soft 'no'. Hopefully, her fear will be groundless, but she moves more quickly to Merrisol's side away from Murdoch. It would not do to be in the way when the doctor stabs Merrisol in the heart. Horrible thought... While she does not have a blade, she can call fire, even down here. Though she is not sure that steaming the ephemeral blackness would be effective or necessary.

Dashton stretches out a hand toward Moire as he slides in to walk beside her for the last few steps. "If you would allow me, Your Majesty?" Upon reaching her body, he reaches out with his other hand, touching it lightly upon her shoulder. Focusing on the two, soul and Vessel alike, he recites her name aloud with each and ever title. "Find your home now, your Vessel once more. A second chance at life that few are to receive." The words are both binding and prayer alike as his hand glows to give her body an extra push toward the realm of Life.

RPG: Dashton declares that he has the Spirit Binding (DEA-BI) gift.
RPG: Dashton declares that he has the Blessings of Purification (FTH-BP) gift.

Murdoch pushes the plunger to inject the apparent antidote into the Warden of Swole. Now at the stage of actual tangible measures and action, he's in his wheelhouse. Ridding the needle of its payload, he tugs it free and plunks the pad of his thumb into the hole left behind, his free hand reaching into his bad for some clever unguent that has denied sharks such a lovely trail to follow. "Mmmm. Yes. So...circulation. These ribs are in the way. Where is an elephant seal when you need one..." The Warden of the Deep dwarfs Och, and so a little ingenuity will be required. Murdoch fetches some slim needles donated from an unfriendly urchin and prepares for a little acupuncture. He lines up more quills, his intention to prioritizing a strong flow of blood by blocking off tertiary veins, and prepares to jab at some of the nerves of the body to stimulate an automatic response.

Much lore suggests that the way to a body's heart is through the digestive system, which begins at the mouth. Moire apparently has understanding of more dignified methods, and slips her hand from Dashton's gallant arm to simply float gracefully to a point directly above her physical form. Her ghostly mane trawls through the body until it joins with the minty green masses still cascading from the chair. Then she falls, serene as a feather in a dead calm, to superimpose and fade to a glimmering outline, integrating seamlessly with the first breath of awakening consciousness. Moire of the House of Lir, Queen Beneath the Waves, and Monarch of the Deep Peoples of Rebma, opens her eyes.

All traces of the hungry lash pass from the vicinity in the moments following its defeat. The cavern appears much as it had previously when Dashton and Maggie initially looked upon the dead realm. With every push of the currents through the distant network of passages, new spiritual presences slip into the area, but these are more familiar dead of Dashton's experiences.

Life sense can detect the dissolving of toxin within Merrisol's heart, the seized synapses regaining functionality. And from there the antidote slips into the venal pathways, to be diverted towards major organs as Murdoch performs some strategic damming with his spiny needles. That'll sting, when the sting can actually be felt.

The grace and beauty of Moire's return to her form is mesmerizing and Maggie takes a moment to appreciate it. Perhaps there will even be a painting in the near future. Or... perhaps not the near future, but the future, certainly. It is a wonderful feeling to know that there will be a future with Moire alive and well in it. From where she is, Maggie offers Moire a warm, welcoming smile when she sees the Queen's eyes open. Her mouth moves, words silently sent to the Lady of Rebma. Then, with a brief, if lingering look, Maggie turns to survey the chamber. Emerald eyes sweep in slow, deliberate arcs as she seeks signs of that shadowy lash's return. That search brings the other ghostly presences into her field of vision and her expression fades to uncertain caution. With no trace of the lash lingering in the area, her earlier fears are put on hold as she turns to Merrisol's body and Murdoch's ministrations.

Looking down on her husband's body, lifeless and empty with the souls of the men she loves hovering in place, ready to settle into it, Maggie seems to stop breathing. Waiting. Hoping. Wanting. Her upper teeth tease her lower lip slightly, the minutes seeming to stretch into an interminable 'not yet'. Patience has never been her strong suit but she has learned much of it over the last nearly-a-year. Nearly a year. Briefly, her eyes close, dark auburn lashes settling on her cheek's pallor. And then it is enough and more. Her eyes open and she sidling a bit closer, hands lifting toward her husband's arm but do not yet touch his skin. So much for staying out of the way. Speaking quietly, she murmurs to Murdoch, "Would it help if I kiss him, do you think?" A wistfulness that refuses to succumb to fear tinges her tones, sending them to hover in the hollow between hope and loss.

Dashton takes a moment to watch the transformation while stepping backward toward Merrisol, knowing full well this is an historic occasion for the realm. Perhaps it is even the greatest triumph of his time practicing the necromantic arts! Just a second or two to revel in this moment are all that he can afford before he turns to face the next challenges. The smile that had formed just seconds earlier fades to make way for the schooled, clinical sort of disposition required for the next phase. He looks over Merrisol from head to toe and gives a sharp nod while quickening his pace. "Excellent work, Doctor. Very interesting use of acupuncture. I'd love to see your notes on the subject later, if you don't mind? I practice a bit of it, myself." Looking to Maggie, he pauses there next to Merrisol and offers her a warm, easy-going smile as if they were standing in the Feldane Gardens themselves and not the middle of all of this madness. "Lady Maggie, it certainly would not hurt, though I would not be too close in the moment when he wakes. These past moments have stressed the body some and waking may be slightly uncomfortable for him." An understatement, to say the least! Hazel eyes swivel back to the two souls hovering there and then he nods to them assertively. "Lirre. Sorensen. The time has come. Find your home now, your Vessel once more. A second chance at life that few are to receive." With these words, he presses a hand to Merrisol's chest and his hand begins to glow with divine light, assisting in the process of purifying and healing the worn Vessel, while also beginning the process of binding them to it.

Murdoch leans over Merrisol's body. Hovering and occasionally having given the ends of the quills a sharp flick with a finger. "Notes?" The word is murmured absently as he follows the highways of arteries with his roaming eyes. Maggie's question brings him up short and he eyes her quizzically. "Perhaps something to hold in reserve. Perhaps if we trapped in some Chantris tome. If he...they...can hear you, you could present such an opportunity as a reward. Something to strive for. A drowning topsider will endure incredible things with a life preserver almost within reach."

There is a commotion after Dashton turns away from his first success. Rebmans not all that content to wait behind the barrier while their beloved Queen returns to them whole, at last, move in to take a knee before her reclined form. There's a murmur of heartfelt welcome, of thanks, though fairly restrained with respect for the initial disorientation of Moire's awakening, and the realization that there is still work to be completed.

Spiritside, Lirre and Sorensen wait raptly on some sort of signal, ready but unable to break into a vessel, no matter how familiar, that still does not live and breathe. Maggie's presence, her nearby voice, increases longing and nervous anticipation. Relatively young, impulsive, ardent souls they seem, not really gelling somehow with the reportedly stable, thoughtful personality of Rebma's Warden. Perhaps it will always be a theoretical mystery how the two of them coexist well enough to function efficiently as Merrisol.

Another turn of the currents through the catacombs, and there are more dead wandering the vicinity. Attracted towards the center of the cavern by perhaps Dashton's and Maggie's voices, or perhaps drawn to the peculiar vessel, a vacuum that wants filling. Agitation radiates from the half-brothers, but they dare not leave Merrisol's side now.

And then, the way is opened, their names called: Lord Lirre, the Pirate Captain Merrisol of Minos, lately a Son of Morfilod, the noble house of Rebma, come home. Lord Sorensen, Son of Morfilod, Son of Fflere of Begma and Kitezh, come home. Fortunately, the measures employed by Murdoch and then a surge of applied prayer has eradicated all traces of poison. The damage undone, the body can only thrive once the systems are jumpstarted.

Maggie darts Dashton a smile and is clearly ready to apply a homing device to the problme in the form of a lip lock. Yes, the body is not exactly thriving, but it will! But she is halted by Murdoch's very sensible cautions. Instead, she looks up at them, hovering there, waiting and her own longing grows. Longing and, admittedly, impatience. Not a Feldane, nor a doctor, she does not know what is missing.

Glancing down, she takes note of Dashton's glowing hand and the strange way the light flickers in miniature representations of lightning. It turns the proceedings into a peculiarly adapted representation of the quickening of Frankenstein's monster and she shudders. Still, her gaze lifts again, "Come home so that I can kiss you." It is an offer, a promise and a warning rolled into one plea.

Movement catches her eye and she lifts her gaze to look beyond the two brothers to the encroaching dead. Frowning, she drops a hand for her own sword as an echo of a warning surges through her. Was it Dashton or Celeste who spoke to her about a vessel such as this one left too long unclaimed? No sword greets her fingers so she reaches across to claim Dashton's, "Pardon me." Drawing it in one smooth movement, she lifts it and steps a pace beyond the chair. Looking up at the spirits gathering, she speaks to them, "This vessel is not yours. Please do not press the issue." Or... their ephemeral existences will be summarily terminated.

Hazel eyes lift from the body to begin surveying the scene around them as Dashton feels the pressure of those wandering souls who are a bit too close for comfort. There is a clear frown there and before he can manage to do much about it, there is Maggie off to the rescue and borrowing Doomwhisper! (Appropriate Feldane rental fees apply, of course.) Looking back to Murdoch, Dashton delivers a curt sort of professional nod of approval, "Well, Doctor. The poison is clear. We'll just need to get this steam engine turned over and we are off to the races." Reaching to his other side, the Feldane takes his walking cane by the ornament at the end, draws it from a loop on his belt in a smooth motion, then pulls a slender blade from within. He takes a step forward to place himself beside Maggie and blocking these souls access to the Vessel. The purple plumes at his irises widen and he puts some extra will into his voice as he says without his usual warmth, "Step no further or you will regret the decision. You will find no peace or sanctuary here, of this I assure you."

Murdoch straightens and gazes upon the Warden's body. "A curious current of phrase, Dashton." His jaw sets as he thinks. He keeps himself fixated upon the task at hand, rather than the rival nearby, as there's no immediate danger from that quarter. Murdoch studiously plucks the quills and lets them fall towards the floor. "I'm having a moment." As Dashton is dealing with those things Feldanes are the experts of, he says to Maggie, "Perhaps you're right. I'm not sentimental, but today has been full of moving moments. If you'd be so kind to assist in giving of yourself, so to speak, you may not have the Sea's blessing? ... But perhaps you could invoke a karmic application by deploying your own upon his mouth. Perhaps Merrisol will be able to voluntarily activate...or wish, if you...a harmonic reception to the close contact and practiced movements will resurrect an application in turn of days long past." He pauses. Adds, deadpan. "And failing that...Cough in his mouth and I'll knee-drop him."

Moire has sat up, effortlessly, as though the waters of Rebma embrace her especially to facilitate her every move. Her long hair lifts in buoyant waves about her, carried by those same waters. Her expression has schooled itself into flawless serenity, a truly regal sangfroid; beauty, power, and wisdom settling upon her being comfortably. First she rests her eyes on her people again, one by one, ending with and staying upon Martin, the young rascal she has made the Crown Prince. No flicker betrays her feelings about that now, but one thing is certain. There will be a great many family dinners ahead, and time enough for either party to rejoice or to regret everything.

The people of the deeps are many and varied, and many of the ghostly forms lumping along through the Great Labyrinth are only partially humanoid, their deathly desires sometimes foreign to read. The numbers beginning to gather outside the ritual sanctum are more typical biped, not all threatening. It's the ones able to ignore the Temple preparations and pass the sigils that are of concern. Spirits with some measure of hunger that drives them towards the living: Envy, spite, or even a single desperate and dogged memory. The Feldane voice, now used to repulse, invokes some hollow-eyed grarhs, and a couple of bitchfaces, from those now haunting the vicinity, but they do not advance.

Maggie glances over as Dashton joins her. He will be more effective at guarding since he isn't likely to be forcing himself not to steal glances back at Merrisol. He isn't likely to be suffering from micro-deaths every time his hopes for the flutter of an eyelash or the quirk of a smile do not come to fruition. Besides, he is far more threatening than she is, what with his fancy-schmancy necromantic abilities. She offers him Doomwhisper, an ominous blade with an ominous name. Kind of creepifying, really.

Fading back to Merrisol's side, she hears Murdoch's request but it takes a moment for her brain to process the clinical instructions and make them turn 'round nicely into a warm circle around the phrase 'kiss him'. When the realization dawns, she smiles at him wordlessly and looks down at her husband. She almost considers trying for Moire's serenity, but gives that up as futile. Gliding forward, she strokes a finger or three through the wheat-gold of his hair, then trails a delicate touch down his cheek. Her heart begins to pick up the pace as she touches the tip of her tongue to her lips. Anticipation mingles with longing, with desire and a bone-deep, heart-deep need. Still, she bends gently, keeping the tremble in her fingers, in her palms, almost out of sight. Those are, or will be, felt by him when he wakes. The other hand gentles to the opposite cheek then both settle and gently turn his head to her. Bending again, she brushes her lips to his, the touch an electric buzz of skin against skin. The first touch sets off a chain reaction in Maggie as dams of emotion are released. The kiss grows as the storms in her blood crackle to life and flow from one to the other in silent, but not at all chaste offer.

Dashton's head is on swivel, checking left and right while holding the line and letting a bit of his Lethem upbringing show. He keeps his attention forward, offering up just a quick nod as he stows the shaft of the cane back in the loop, transfers the sword to the other hand, and then accepts the sword crafted from bone. One, the weapon of a gentleman. The other... not so much. His head cants to the side and his position adjusts as he keeps a watch over the progress with the Vessel. With the big push by Murdoch and certainly those sparks off Maggie, the Feldane feels the moment is upon them! The swordcane blade spins and slides into the shaft of the cane before he reaches over with his newly freed hand to focus another prayer and guide the binding process. No pressure here, everyone! Just happening at the last moments for the Vessel, with the pressure of masses of undead pushing in, and the watchful gaze of Moire herself!

Murdoch relinquishes any physical contact with the patient when Maggie moves in to deliver what is possibly the opposite of a coup de grace. A beginning of a new chapter rather than final punctuation. Clear! Another step taken back, not wanting to cause interference from any strange field or juju possible. He's not at all embarrassed to watch, oblivious to social gaff while a resurrection is underway. He watches in tense anticipation for a sign. He can almost imagine a charge in the water with the earnest touches and affection on display.

Martin is immediately at his grandmother's side in spite of his gaze lying briefly upon the form of Merrisol. Wake up, man, he hopes and prays to Lir. But it is Moire who gains his full attention for the moment of her return. He kneels at her feet, bowing his head. A long exhale shudders through his body. He must have been holding that breath for a while now. Finally, at long last, she has returned. She has woken in her true form and come back to them. There would be a tear rolling down Martin's cheek if they were not in Rebma. He is overcome with emotion and unable to hide it for the first time in his life. "You're alive..." He whispers breathlessly.

Now standing among her subjects, suddenly acutely ravenously famished, Queen Moire herself is drawn to look back toward the other chair, where diligent work continues on Lord Merrisol... her loaner. For that very reason, she may have been avoiding even a glimpse. But, as Murdoch speaks on the medical science behind faerie-tale cures, and Dashton commands the lurking unseen to disperse... she looks. And for an instant, she.... no. No, you are mistaken. She doesn't react at all. She observes with a cool compassion. Then she turns away. Martin, kneeling before her; she leans to touch his shoulder, now drawing him up, the boy become man. "Yes, Grandson," she whispers, unused to her own voice. "And Rebma lives yet. We have much for which to be thankful."

Still adequately warm to the touch, even accounting for Rebma, it is not unlike stealing a kiss from a dozing mate. Almost. Those eyes, though. His face does not stir, nor does his chest rise from the soft touch, though of tingling there is a start. A spark. The deathoscope finds the brothers in contact, crowding, hanging on her every move. The undeterred Maggie, twice-Stormblooded, mistress of fire and lightning, builds on that charge, and.. c'mon. You'd have to be dead not to....

KA-BUMP.

Lirre and Sorensen are gone. They were there. Now they are not. Dashton is there, however, his hand and his will sealing them in once more. Third time's a charm. Captain Merrisol's chest lifts into that of Captain Flame while he returns her kiss, eyes now slipped closed in deep concentration of that awareness.

There is a difference between a kiss not responded to and one that is. Maggie feels the thump in her husband's chest, senses the moment the kiss is joined, hers and his. Her lashes do not close, for she seeks his gaze. It is her hands that move, slipping from his face to gather his shoulders into her arms and hold him against her. There is a fierceness to her movements, a protective intensity that seems as though it is not going to ever be released.

Gradually, she remembers where they are, though and with that remembering, she eases the kiss back until she can pause it, "Kerf. Mine own. Welcome home." It is true that each word is punctuated by another, briefer kiss, but she is trying. Sort of. "There are others who want to see you and some you should meet." She begins to stand then, body and hands, lips and heart resenting the need to separate from him even by those comparatively minute fractions.

Success! Dashton's head whips around as he feels it; a successful binding of not one soul, but two! People are really working the Feldanes for discounts here today. The gardener is smiling with all of the warmth that begins returning to his skin with each and every blink of his eyes. The Feldane blade is stowed at his side and he begins working his cuffs back down into place as he stops barring the Door, letting the dead pass through, should they choose to. He takes up his coat to slide into it in an effortless motion, then takes strides toward Moire to kneel before her, head reverently tilted down, with a job successfully completed. There will be time enough later to congratulate Maggie and Merrisol, for now they have important business to attend to. And he has a possessed beloved waiting to have a Cibolan god forcibly removed... With formalities tended to, the Feldane slips away amongst the Knights and Sisters without casting a ripple in the water, moving to be ferried on back home most expediently.

RPG: Dashton declares that he has the Disengaged (STY-DS) gift.

Murdoch observes the kneeling and lovers reuniting, offering a contemplative sound in his throat and then proceeds to file this day under strange-but-true in the mental filing cabinets. "Hm." He considers requesting everyone to lay down and submit themselves to a rigorous inspection, and thinks better of it in the end. He is about to offer congratulations to Lord Dashton, and finds the gentleman gone. "Hm."

Martin likewise was about to look for the Feldane but he'd already escaped the social consequences of great big hugs from Rebmans. Hm! Indeed. He straightens and offers her his arm. "Indeed. Shall I call the Princess Miriam or shall we go to the Throne Room and have her meet us there?" No doubt the news has traveled quickly and every minnow in the ocean is on its way to Rebma to witness the Great Miracle of the Queen rejoined to her body. He knows she is probably tired, but duty and the people will need to lay eyes on her to see for themselves. Especially after all that has transpired. He looks around to the people in the cavern, marking each face to memory for special consideration in the near future. Merrisol has moved! And is himself and it is all he can do not to rush over there and inappropriately fling his arms around his best friend. Princedom has it's downsides. His smile, however, has grown three times in these moments. Merrisol! Kerf! He supposes that Maggie can hug Kerf enough for both of them at the moment. But there will be a hug in the near future. Be warned.

Not taking Dashton's respectful presentation as a gesture of farewell, Moire takes in the Feldane's appearance with the detached smile she is still so good at. Her gaze rests on him, its placidity hiding the keen search for evidence of stress in the man from his recent challenges. She asks no questions, saving the debrief for Lord Setao later. "The appreciation of Rebma is with House Feldane today, Lord Dashton," she murmurs, bidding him to rise. Her attention goes back to Martin while Dashton pulls a casual fade. "Lord Daffyd will direct the dismantling of these structures. We shall return to the surface," and by surface she means the sea floor, naturally. "I am looking forward to seeing the Princesses. Let us come together in the dining hall, though, for I am unbearably hungry, Martin."

Martin nods softly, "I know they are looking forward to seeing you, Grandmother. I'm sure that there are delicacies waiting tonight to enjoy." He gazes back at Merrisol and Maggie. "It is good to have you back, Merrisol." Nothing say I wanna hug my Friend like a prince who pauses while leading a Queen out of the place where she's spent so many years. "Please come too," he nods at Murdoch.

Twitches flex through Kerf's muscles as though he would follow Maggie up and out, just to continue that close and urgent contact. Motor function is evidently going through some tune-ups, however, re-estabilshing those pathways to the command center. For the moment, he stares after her with a green gaze that processes through a slideshow of transient thoughts, queries, and moods, while his mouth settles into an increasingly determined-looking line. He manages an emphatic nod to her, affirming desire and intent to get up and swimming. Huffing his way up, he immediately gloms onto his wife again, growls working their way up through a hitching larynx to mumble-mutter her name into her neck, over and over, and each one conveying something different. A plea, a question, an apology, a demand... Presently, his gaze lifts and screens those nearby, wary. Murdoch, a stranger. Setao, vague face-in-a-crowd. Sir Leamas, errr. Moire. Painful to look upon, move on. To Martin.

Murdoch is busy contemplating the amazing lack of blood or fluids upon his white smock. He looks up, eyebrow arching quizzically, looking like he's going to wish everyone to live well and prosper. He nods quite readily to the invitation. "You're too kind. Thank you." A glance is cast to the southwest before he collects himself so as not to leave a mess. Eyeing Merrisol's condition, he sees how getting invited along may have a need beyond the social. He hopes he removed all the sharp pointy things. "Remarkable."

Maggie does not wish to leave her Kerf any more than he wants that separation. Does he really have to get up now? Too late to consider just staying here as he is moving and she is... glommed onto. Her smile is quick and her arms go about him both to steady him and to affirm her nearness. Although she hears the different meanings in her name, she cannot adequately answer any of them with anything but a tightened hold and her cheek resting against his shoulder. That he shifts his gaze, she has no doubt, sensing changes in his posture as his focus shifts. Murdoch; a friend, the others also more or less. Moire. The warmth of love for that woman wells in her, but is left unspoken for now. Martin. She can feel it when he finds his friend. A soft laugh rises and she again begins to step aside, but this time she keeps an arm about his waist. "Come on. I am not the only one to have missed you..." Maggie; bro-enabler.