selfpreservationist | [RAVEN'S HEART GAME

Entry tags:

ic,
imeeji

[RAVEN'S HEART GAME - SESSION ONE]

The first thing you hear is the sound of rain faintly hitting the exterior of the house. The soft pitter-patter is almost soothing, in a way, but it’s quickly followed up by rumbling thunder in the distance. You open your eyes, and for a second all you see is a flash of light--at first it seems like it’s lightning, but then you see something. A vision of a man dressed in rags, hunched over, waves of demonic power rolling over him. He howls, and something terrible starts to grow out of him: the bloody roots of a massive tree. An immense wave of panic hits you, and you can’t move, you can’t speak, you can’t breathe--

And then it’s over. It’s over. You’re fine.

The sound of rain returns. (This time it’s definitely soothing, compared to what you just saw.) You’re standing in the foyer of a mansion, a wide open living room in front of you. The door behind you is faintly ajar, leading outside.

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Unlike most other rooms in the mansion, this one is brightly lit, sun shining through the windows as though the rain isn’t present at all. This room looks like someone’s bedroom; there’s a soft bed with black sheets and pillows, a small bookshelf with several leather-bound books that appear to be diaries, an open wardrobe, and a framed photograph on the wall. There is a wooden chest at the foot of the bed with an epigraph on it.

It feels peaceful in here… calming, even. Like you could curl up and take a nap, if you wanted to.

You can leave this room and go back to the upstairs corridor.

[He will, like a nosy man, check out the photo and diaries first.]

The photograph is of a woman with long blonde hair. It must be the same woman from the portrait in the foyer, though her face is much clearer now. Actually, there is something of a resemblance between her and Raven, don’t you think? As you stare at her, you feel--for just a brief moment--a sensation like being embraced, held warmly in a pair of arms. By the time you realize it, it’s gone… but it was nice while it lasted.

As for the books, they all bear labels in gold-leaf print:

Dante
Dva (Hana)
Glory
Nero
Noah (G’raha)
Shrike
Vergil

Each book is fairly small, like a pocketbook, but have all clearly been written in.

[He'll take the one called Vergil and open it to read.

What's a privacy]

The book reads:

Ah, Vergil. My Heaven in Hell’s Despair. More of my tears have been shed over him than anyone else. On my worst days, I look at him and feel bitterness rise in the back of my throat. “You rejected me. You abandoned me.” I can think of nothing else, try as I might. On my best days, he is a joy. Sometimes I am filled with the overwhelming urge to hold him in my arms, weak as I may be, and kiss him. I want to tell him that I love him and that I will always love him. Pathetic, isn’t it? But that’s what I am, after all. I am my own man, but nothing will sever my connection to Vergil’s heart. I don’t want to be severed from Vergil’s heart, honestly. As painful as it can be, it is who I am. How I came to be. I don’t want to throw that away, even as I resent him and I cherish him in equal measure. Sometimes I hate that he wants me to be my own person, as it feels like just another way to push me out of his life, like he pushed me out of his body with Yamato. And yet, without that separation, I would never have come to know the man he is now. I would never have come to love him the way I do, if he did not push me. The more he grows, the further away from him I feel… and the deeper I fall for him. What kind of man am I, if not Vergil’s?

[Cute. Putting that away to read Nero's.]

The book reads:

There is something very romantic about the idea of nursing an unrequited love for the rest of one’s days, and if I live long enough to pine for the days of my youth, I’m certain the one thread of lost love I’ll still be clinging onto is Nero’s. I have never been so proud and so ashamed as when I am with Nero. Proud that I could be a part of his life, proud that I could be someone he trusts, proud that I could call such a man my son, proud that I can support him, proud of who he has become and the strength he carries. And ashamed that I have hurt him, ashamed that I cannot banish my desires, ashamed that I cannot push them aside and want what is best for him, ashamed that I prefer to call him my brother instead of my son in the vain, selfish hopes that one day that could be a boundary he would be willing to cross. But these are feelings I’ve accepted, more or less, because more than anything else I want to be there to watch him grow and thrive and live a long, healthy life. If there is one Sparda who deserves everything the world has to offer, it must be Nero. I’ll never forgive anyone who tries to rob him of that right. On my deathbed, if the last thing I saw was Nero’s smile, I could die happily… or I could push myself to live just a little longer. Just to see it for a few seconds more.

Sentimental.

[He sets that one back and opens Dva's.]

The book reads:

I knew Hana was going to be someone special to me not long after we met. It was not the eccentricity, the bubbly personality, or even the gentle way she coaxed me out of my shell. It was the pain I saw beneath her smile. I recognized it as soon as I saw it: someone with a broken heart, just like mine. I think it only natural that I would gravitate towards that, towards someone who had suffered the kind of pain I’ve always held within me. But neither of us know how to heal our own wounds, and so I think we have both unintentionally caused the other even more pain. For that, I would beg her forgiveness. We both argue that the other one is the sun to our moon, but if she thinks of me as her sun, then I confess I am honored. I just hope I can live up to it, and help her shine the way she’s meant to. And despite our ups and downs, no one makes me laugh quite like she does. No one shatters my glumness like her. I come back to the question she asked me again and again… would I marry her, if I could? Maybe, if we can both find a way to heal. Once, she was my wife in all but name; the queen alongside whom I would reign in the Underworld. But that was a fantasy used as a tourniquet--something to stop the flow of pain coursing through both of us. Now, she doesn’t have to resign herself to ruling Hell, and I don’t have to resign myself to dying. It was uncomfortable to realize that I was using my own resignation as a crutch, and how it soured my feelings towards her. She deserves better than that. I deserve better than that. I don’t want us to rule over the Underworld anymore; I want us to rule as humans, side by side, in a human world that we can thrive and flourish in. She may not be my wife, but she will always be my queen.

You are quite the romantic. But I imagine you will already be a bit annoyed at my prying.

[He sets that book down with all the same care as the rest and turns to inspect the chest. Can he open it?]

For a moment, it sounds like someone is chuckling just behind you... but there's no one there.

The wooden chest appears to be locked, somehow. There is no keyhole anywhere to be found, but there is an indentation where something could be placed. It’s shaped vaguely like an oval, about the size of a child’s fist.

The epigraph carved on top of the chest reads:

“I love you as certain dark things are to be loved
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.”

A puzzle hm?

[He will not try to force it, checking the wardrobe next.]

The wardrobe is partially opened, with clothing haphazardly strewn about on the bottom, spilling out onto the floor of the room. They’re all fine clothes, Zrael-esque with lots of ruffles and lace and tight pants, but there are a few that look ragged and worn. There’s a set of lacy, risque-looking panties and at least one set of lingerie in here.

[You know what that actually itches his corruption he has to spend some time folding and hanging and putting away all the clothes until they're neat and orderly and then he'll close the closet and head to the room number 2.]

You get about halfway through folding the clothes when something happens.

You hear the sound of someone chuckling from behind you--low and husky and familiar. Raven is lounging on the bed, hair black, wearing nothing but a pair of black silk pants that hang low and loose on his hips, and a grin. It feels like the temperature in the room is rising…

"Are you sure you want to keep doing that?"

[Well that's a lot more of Raven than he's seen before.]

Would you prefer them out like this?

Boy sure has a lot of tattoos on his torso.

Raven gets up and sidles riiiiiight up to you, walking his fingers up your chest.

"I would. Why keep them hidden away?"

[He tilts his head, catching his wrist gently and holding his hand.]

If you would rather I leave them be than I shall. Though is putting them away the same as hiding them? They're still there for you. I am hardly stuffing them under the bed.

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