The Shadow Carnevale (RP)

Albeart's face turns to see Ezme opening the door. "Slowly." He tells her, growling softly. "We don't know what it will do." Then he continues to look inside, wondering what might happen next.

"You there! Stop!" Lille yells at the departing figure. Not trusting her legs to move her, she quickly pulls her sling from her belt and fits it with a stone from her pouch. She aims and releases, hoping to whack the suspicious person.

Ezme is nothing if not focused. She will not be distracted, and right now she has her eyes on the prize: the urn. Ignoring the commotion from outside, she creeps toward the odd centerpiece. Ducked down low next to the table, she slowly reaches a hand out to touch the piece of pottery. It feels smooth and unexpectedly cold under her fingertips. Tentatively, she starts to straighten to get a better look at it from above.

Albert snaps out of his focus on the shadow cords and its container when Lille shouts suddenly. He sees someone running away and moves to chase him while Lille is already starting her attack. If she can get the figure off balance, he'll pounce and pin them to the floor.

Lille’s grab for her sling and the stone is so instinctive that she’s just released it by the time she remembers that she’s in a place where physics works differently. "I hate this place," she murmurs to no one in particular, as she fits a second stone and imbues it with the solidity of a memory.

The whack as it hits the stranger is satisfying, but not as much as Albeart’s rush to help. About time we all started hunting like a pack, she thinks, and smiles grimly with approval. "We need them alive," she reminds her charging companion. "Mostly"

Tracking him with the corner of her eye, she checks on Ezme’s progress. "Have you discovered anything about that pot?"

Lille frowns worriedly at Ezme before turning back to Albeart and his new prisoner. Though the desire to claim that prize is strong, the urge to reclaim her memory from the stone is stronger. I wouldn’t have put anything important in there.. would I? She remembers a few options that flitted through her head in the moment she loaded up the stone, but of course none of those were chosen. She lets out a snarl towards the closing crowds and starts heading towards the shimmering rock.

"Keep them back!" she shouts to Albeart. "I’m coming!" she declares, as much a promise as a threat.

Ezme gazes into the urn, fixated. Within, she sees her friends' cords swirling together, combining to create what appears to be a churning liquid or misty substance at the top of the urn. Shadowy shapes take form and swiftly dissipate, often too quickly for her to identify them. But then, as she stares on, she perceives a clearer image: a young girl crouched in absolute terror, hands clapped over her ears. Around her a bright light flashes, then casts her into complete darkness.

Once again the substance swirls and churns. Before long, it takes shape again, displaying what is clearly Roald, butcher knife in one hand, an empty tankard in the other. His face is twisted in delirious rage, and as he stands there, chest heaving, his face swiftly ages and contorts to an ... an older version of himself? But, no... His face and nose have broadened somewhat, his brows thickening and altering to that of another man -- older, but similar in appearance. A battered form lies prostrate at his feet.

The scene changes again. It's Albert now, in human form, surrounded by distraught people. Eyes wide and mouths agape, their arms extend toward him as if they are calling for his aid. Albert reaches out to help them, but one by one they disappear in a puff of smoke as he does so. His face is the picture of helplessness and horror.

(Ezme has enough decency to feel abashed as it dawns on her that she is looking invasively into the hearts and minds of her companions, and yet she cannot help herself, cannot tear her eyes away....)

Again the image swirls, now in a more agitated fashion. It takes a few moments before finally settling on a clear image of Daryl, standing shame-faced before Albert, Roald, Theo, Lille, and herself. Daryl himself looks unwounded, but the rest of the crew is riddled with scrapes and wounds as if they had been caught in some sort of skirmish. Roald steps forward, angrily gripping and yanking at Daryl's shiny breastplate. With ease, the plate detaches from Daryl's body and clatters to the ground. The rest of his armor soon follows suit, falling away to reveal what lies underneath -- an ungainly form which appears oddly scrawny and barely clothed. Ashamed, Daryl hugs himself and turns away as the rest of the group scoffs and laughs scornfully. Shaking their heads, everyone turns and walks away. Roald pauses only to spit disdainfully at Daryl's feet before following the rest of the group.

Again the substance starts to swirl -- now as if whirl pooling, funneling down toward the bottom of the urn. Clearly these thoughts/fears were combining to "feed" something, but... what? Was there something at the bottom of this urn? Transfixed, Ezme leans in closer to try to get a better look...

Ezme was totally absorbed by the happenings in the urn and had no time to react before landing hard in the mud. She lets out a surprised grunt as Daryl's heavy form presses down on her.

"What are you doing!?" she exclaims, struggling to escape. It feels difficult to push him off, her hands seeming to sink more through him than against him as she resists.

"I was not being sucked! I was looking! Damnit, I could almost see--!"

As Ezmaray retorts, Daryl slowly sinks deeper into her. As his chest permeates her own, her mind is filled with an image -- the instance from his perspective. She sees her own body peering into the clay pot. She sees it thinning and elongating as indeed it is being drawn into it. She experiences his fear in that moment, his impulse to action.

The lines between them are melting away, she realizes. As hard as she might try, she cannot keep from Daryl the revelations she'd just seen in that urn. She feels them flow into him as easily as his experience had coursed into her.

Ezme's resistance slackens as Daryl's present feelings of awkward discomfort, confusion, and concern fill her breast.

The longer this goes on, the more of a merge this will be. Distantly, she wonders if she would completely disappear into Daryl?

Albeart bears his teeth and roars at the person pinned down by his large paws, making sure that they can feel his breath of their face. "If you even think about touching that stone, I'll tear you to pieces!" Was he becoming more bear and less Albert? He had no time to think about such things. Besides, the power of the bear came in really handy right now.

After making sure, his captive is thoroughly restrained, his gaze moves up to the gathering crowd. Another snarl makes them hesitate to keep coming forward. Behind him he can hear a ruckus near the coach, but he stays focused. Ezme and Road have surely got that covered. Just a few more moments and they'll be back in the real world. Would he miss being a bear? The thought crosses his mind. It does have its advantages...

Lille roars, as if in reply to Albeart, though her snarl carries less volume. She raises and shakes her staff, more as a general threat than preparation for a specific attack. "You don’t touch what’s mine!" she shouts at the crowd. It’s hard to tell if her speed is slowed by the dream world, or just doesn’t feel fast enough compared to the pressing masses. Either way, her body radiates savage determination as she struggles forward to close her fingers around the stone...

Roald watches the strange merging between Daryl and Ezme. He has to act... Quickly.
The quickest way however to get to them is through the coach, once inside he hesitates... Drawn to the urn...

maybe a quick peek?
To his left Daryl is unsuccessfully trying to get up. In front of him the urn.