#char:w

The CAP's Powered Classifications (Updated)

32: underneath

"You can remove it, you know."

Desdemona's voice drifts over from her position on the chaise lounge, which she's been stretched out across since his arrived. His hand twitches as he runs it over the curve of the mask; in the mirror his eyes, one golden and the other a clouded white, burn into his image.

He can see, if he leans in close enough, the dark skin of his cheek. It's skin that Attollo hasn't seen in 19 years—only the shadows of night and the swamps of abroad know what it truly looks like. He sometimes wonders if the skin is even real, or if perhaps it's finally merged together with the bone mask that he hardly ever removes.

Is there a face underneath anymore? Or is it nothing but another empty chasm to stare into?

The sound of a glass being set on the table breaks his thoughts and his hand drops back to his waist. Desdemona moves to stand beside him and he turns to her, curious. She raises her hands to cup the mask and gives him a searching look as though waiting for permission.

He nods, and she slides the mask off of his face.

His skin prickles with the sudden exposure to the cold air of the room. Desdemona sets the mask down and turns back to him, cupping his face in her palms. A wave of exhaustion settles over his body as he closes his eyes, feeling her thumbs caress along his cheeks. Whether he closes his eyes to lose himself in the moment or to prevent himself from looking in the mirror, he isn't too sure.

What he does know is that he's afraid of what he would see were he to open his eyes. If he were to open them and see his face reflected in Desdemona's eyes, he thinks he'd hardly recognize it—there wouldn't be any resemblance to the boy that she grew up with.

Pity on her, to be so enamoured with a memory.

He also knows that he'd give the world to stay like this, in this moment of tentative affection, but already he feels the pull in his gut signalling that his powered abilities are beginning to wane. He opens his eyes, looking to the sky instead of Desdemona's face, and lets out a soft sigh.

pyrrhic - won at too great a cost

What would you give to win a war?

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knows that this question has been asked before. Surely in some timeline, long before barriers went up and people became rats caught in cages, someone asked 'how much is too much?' and found an answer they deemed worthwhile.

He wishes he could know that answer himself.

Standing on a pyre of his own design, the flames licking at his ankles as he breathes in smoke through his mask, he feels like the people he read about as a child in musty old books shoved in the back of a library. The crackling of flags burning up mimic the flicking of pages that he became so familiar with; sobs could be easily dismissed as coughs of dry throats, and the voices of thousands who call out to him are like the voices that flow off of pages.

If he distances himself enough from the situation, retreats far enough into his mind, he can ignore the bodies strewn around him like some mockup worship ceremony. He can ignore the smell of burnt flesh, the hum of insects already descending, the yelling of those who have survived his ruthless attacks.

What would you give to win a war?

He can see Markos Crowes face beyond the smoke, dark eyes wide and expression ashen. He see's the terror, the shock, the absolute betrayal that etches within his features; he can hardly believe that one of his own has done this.

His lips twitch into an involuntary grin beneath his mask.

“You are still as you were.” 

His fingers nervously entwine together and he focuses down on them, wishing he could leave the area as swiftly as possible. The air is oppressive and stale and smells faintly of dead fish—that rubbery, rotting scent of guts and decay. For once, he’s in a dream that he can’t control, and the reality of this is possibly the most terrifying thing he’s faced. 

“Would you,” he pauses, twisting his fingers harshly and listening to the knuckles crack, “care to elaborate on that?” 

He receives a low chuckle in response, which finally draws his gaze upwards. The bleach white of the stag skull stands out, even in the darkness of night, and the dotted white lights of the stars pale in comparison. Enaire inclines his head before turning back to the waters, which ebb and flow with galaxies in their waves. They watch them together for a moment in silence before Enaire continues. 

“You’ve built your entire reputation off of word of mouth, Dreamwalker, and it served you well in the beginning. Yet you still rely on the civilians to add the fear behind your name—to incite the terror themselves. I would have thought, after a decade in this group, you would…” 

Another wave runs over their feet, and Enaire sighs. “Broaden your horizons?” 

“And how do you propose I do that?” There’s a bite in Dreamwalkers tone as a flair of frustration runs through him. Everything, and yet in Enaires eyes it’s still nothing at all. “It’s not like I can waltz into a room without my mask and proclaim my intentions. I have a life outside of Dreamwalker—one that benefits us, might I add.” 

“I would watch your tongue, Dreamwalker.” 

Abruptly, instead of feeling frustration, Dreamwalker feels the sensation of a heavy weight on his chest. It causes him to sway where he stands as his head begins to feel light; it’s as though someone has completely cut off his air supply within seconds, and now his body is trying to understand what’s going on. He clears his throat and turns away from Enaire to collect himself. 

“You were once and perhaps continue to be the myth you tell to scare yourself. I expect you to come with new plans and methods the next time we meet, instead of continuing this boogeyman charade you so rely on. Nightmares only last as long as people do not understand the facts behind them—you can’t hide in the shadows forever. You will, inevitably, be exposed, and when you do,” 

Enaire reaches out and presses a hand in the center of Dreamwalkers back. “I expect you to be prepared.”

22. What’s their silliest or most unusual fear/phobia?

He has a fear of mirrors that stems from childhood

23. Is their pain tolerance high or low?

Incredibly high

26. Are they technologically savvy?