#lysdritch

*Continuing the tradition of indulging their nomadic tendencies, Lysdritch has spent nearly a week wandering away from the safety of their island and the Clinic, out in the world. Partly Lys is happy to just explore the countryside, and partly they are out looking to gather medicinal herbs and necromancy ingredients and also finding things they really shouldn’t. Suddenly they are shaken from their thoughts of picking a nice bunch of nightshade by a loud explosion off to the distance and a column of smoke rising above the treeline.

[Lysdritch] Now t-that, * They mutter, the words muffled by the mask, *s-eems int-teresting.

*Ever the curious (and slightly reckless) type, they decide to investigate.

*As they approach the Border, they notice smoke emanating from one of the buildings. Given their past, Lys is naturally suspicious, and calls out in greeting first, to see if anyone is around. There is no reply but for the whistle of wind and the crackle of smoke. Carefully and cautiously they venture towards the source, very aware that physical confrontations tend to not end so well for them.

*It can be difficult to sneak with impaired vision and a skeletal foot, but Lys tries to as quiet as possible as they pick their way into the town and closer to the smoking building. With a sigh, they cast out with their meagre magic, searching the town for the dull throb of life - or the sharp prick of death. There is nothing, save for a faint pulse; one living person in the whole town, and clearly not fit and hale for the faintness of the throb.

This makes things safer.

*They think, as they stop trying to hide their presence quite so much. They make their way more quickly, but loudly, into the building tendrils of smoke are still spilling from.

*The generator room is eerily quiet. The floor is littered with various mechanical parts and bits of scrap of what looks like one of the generators. Lying face first on the floor is a large man barely breathing in a small pool of what looks like blood.

*DR ABC floats to their mind, so Lys grabs a nearby bar that they see at the doorway and carefully makes their way over to him, calling out ‘Excuse me?’ as they go, hoping for a response. When no answer is immediate, they gently prod the closest leg, hoping to get some kind of reaction while still at a safe enough space away. There is no response.

Danger and Response have been checked and they are both negative.

*From what they can see with their good eye, the man’s chest is rising and falling, so that ticks off Airways and Breathing and the blood pooling around him suggests at least some Circulation.

*Faced with an unconscious person, Lys takes stock of what they have on them; herbs, thread, an alarming number of bone needles, and a pouch full of potions. Weighing up the situation, Lys decides waking him up is probably a good idea; at least maybe then Lys will know what sort of accident he was in.

*Carefully, Lys supports his head up with an arm and a couple of drops of the Potion of Awakeness into the man’s mouth. They continue to drip the potion in, until after a few moments, Will starts to groan in pain as the potion brings him back to reality. Slowly opening his eyes he looks up groggily at the dull silver bauta mask of Lys.

[Will] Argh… What? Where, *he winces in pain,* Am I? What… happened? You? Who?* He closes his eyes again briefly.

[Lysdritch] You were in-jured in a - um - in an accident. C-can you t-tell me your name?* Lys stutters, hands clenching in their gloves, wanting to reach out and check for injuries, but worried he might lash out. Lys doesn’t recognise him from the Blue Moon Ball; his voice is so different when clouded with pain.

[Will] My… my name? Er… Its… argh… Will. * He says suddenly clutching his waist as the pain sears through him. Opening his eyes briefly he takes a better but short look at their face.* Your mask? You… uggh… were at the ball?

*Lysdritch rocks back on their heels.

[Lysdritch] I was? I-I mean, I was. D-Did I meet you? *They look at the wrist he is holding,* Can I t-take a look at your hand? I can help.

*Will barely opens his eyes before uttering between pained breaths.

[Will] Hephaestus… At your… service… Forgive me… for not… standing up.

*There is a sharp inhale of breath from Lysdritch as they remember the friendly masked man and the group that had helped at the ball.

*They take a moment to pull their attention to focus and manage to say.

[Lysdritch] You are v-v-very injured and I d-don’t know if I… How I can … What hap-pened?

[Will] Call… it a hunch… but I think... the generator... exploded… Shoddy piece of… At least I... shut the rest off. Wouldn’t be... having this little… chat otherwise... argh! *Will clutches at his stomach again. *

[Will] Tell me honestly… Will I play the piano again?* He briefly laughs before the searing pain turns the giggles to coughs.*

*Lysdritch looks at the gash on his arm; the sluggish bleeding and worrying deepness of the wound.

[Lysdritch] Well I think - if you d-don’t explode another g-generator you might do better?*

They shift and open their bag, beginning to pull out cloth bandages, * I won’t l-lie; I d-don’t have much experience with keeping people alive - we normally see … well I mean.* They exhale slowly. *I can’t heal you. I - I can’t provide the care needed.*

*Gingerly they reach out to brush along his arm, feeling for necrosis but finding none. With practiced movements, they clamp a wad of cloth over the wound and apply unyielding pressure on it.

[Will] There’s maybe… ugh… one place…* Will mutters slowly as the potion starts to lose its effectiveness.

*With one last grunt of agony Will utters ‘FAIRC…’ before the strength of the pain overpowers the potion and he loses consciousness completely.

*The minor wounds Lys is able to patch up with herbs in their bag. It's not the most effective way to treat them, but they are more concerned with stopping the bleeding and keeping him alive than reducing scars and making it look pretty. The worse ones Lys simply packs cloth into tight bundles and bandages them up without trying to clean them or remove any of the shrapnel.

*As they work they hum quietly, checking every every so often that Will is still breathing.

When he is out of immediate danger, they look around the still smouldering room. (He hadn't admitted for anything to be brought with him, and nothing in the room stands out as being worth life or death in Lys' book, so they sort of half heartedly stamp one of the fires out, before giving it up as a lost cause.)

-

*Lysdritch doesn't much like heavy lifting. In fact, they have gone through great measures to not have to do any sort of heavy lifting for a long time. So being faced with an unconscious man who is significantly larger than themself, they don't quite know what to do.

They look at Will, then to the door. Hesitantly they reach out to grab one of his wrists, slowly in case of any sudden movements. A gloved hand meets his wrist. They look at the door again.

*Five minutes later Lysdritch has managed to get him out of the building, but is nearly choking on how little air they're getting and regretting the Hippocratic oath more than ever. They drop the arms they have been pulling on and reach up to clumsily unbuckle their mask. Lys manages a couple of deep breaths through their nose before breathing in through their mouth. And the giant hole where their left cheek should be. While the hole only extends to the edge of the jaw, the scarring goes all the way up to their blind eye, merging with the decomposing wound around the socket.

[Lysdritch] Sleep. D-don't wake up. Need t-to...get h-help carrying you.* They mutter in between harsh breaths.

*Clutching at the Necromantic Stone beneath their robe, they cast out their senses again to touch any Lych inclined nearby. A shambling mess of a skeleton answers, as does an old horse not long for the world. With the promise of an easy passing, both agree to help transport the man.

*Between the skeleton and Lysdritch they manage to get Will up and onto the horse without seriously damaging the already injured man. Then, with the skeleton shuffling behind, the convoy sets off, Lysdritch feeling oddly free. In the company they are currently keeping they don't feel the need to put their mask back on and relish the chance to not wear it. They don't remember the last time it was off for more than just a few minutes.

*The odd group start off, Lydritch desperately hoping they are going in the right direction, back to where the Blue Moon Ball had been held.

-

*The progression makes it to the facility in good time and in the dead of night; the perfect time for getting close to somewhere that would otherwise be rather busy.

*They know they can't go in with Will. It isn't often Lysdritch finds someone friendly, but there are some things do ingrained in a person that even friendship can't break and going into an unknown facility with unknown people sounds exactly like the sort of thing that will end up badly for a mostly undead Necromancer.

The entrance to FAIR-CO lies at the end of a half-mile of tunnel that cuts a dark throat into the mountainside; easily two storeys high and the width of a main road, the black stone and grey concrete of the tunnel floor still bear the sunken tracks for the heavy machinery that must have been used to carve the Facility out of the earth below.  Inset industrial lighting casts harsh illumination and harder shadows, underlain with the red gleam of emergency backups, and the bulbous black eyes of security cameras bulge out of the walls at regular intervals.

The tunnel echoes with footsteps of guests and escorts alike.  The inner doorway is a huge, solid metal construction with hinges like a titan’s fists, set open into the tunnel, and the bright lights of the reception area spill out between the flanking figures of attendant Functionaries.

Welcome to FAIR-CO...

[Lysdritch] The first step... *Lysdritch thinks to themselves ...is hiding in the corner and praying no one asks what you are doing.

*In hindsight, a black-cloaked figure huddled in a corner has never been the most inconspicuous of sights, but in the shining lights of the rather grand reception, Lysdritch is already contemplating turning around and escaping.

*They manage two steps; the second their right foot makes contact with the ground, the ‘clack’ of their bone-foot meeting the floor seems inordinately loud and freezes Lysdritch to the spot.

*The two preened, glossy Reception Clerks in their plastinated uniforms stare unguardedly at the newcomer. Their lips are painted like black glass, smiles knife-point sharp. The loyal Daughter at the desk is the first to speak. Her smile is fixedly rigidly and her voice soft and lyrical.

[Clerk] Welcome to 272. Step forward and present your invitation.

*In a slow movement, Lysdritch raises their head, turning slightly so that their good eye can see the woman.

[Lysdritch] Doctor Lysdritch Yan’Ra, formerly of Le Forêt de Décroissance de La 13th Principauté. My i-invit-ation. *They stutter on the last word, and the free gloved hand clenches into a fist, as the other holds out the invite with only the slightest of tremors.

[Clerk] Non-regulation language is impermissible in this Facility under penalty.

*The clerk glances slyly to the other at her side.

[Clerk] Your invitation has expired, Doctor. You are required to leave at once.

*Outside, in the near-dark, through the beech wood coppices, hooves thunder. It is the Machinists, riding their horses hard. Each of them wears the dusty finery of the Border Forge, stained dark with ash and singed at the seams. Covering their faces are elegant masks of mirror polished bronze, cast from pieces of fallen State grandeur; Demeter, Hephaestus, Athena, Ares and Dionysus.

*Dismounting, they tie their huge AGRI horses in silence; the horses tramping nervously, forelocks dew-wet in the rising lake mist. Their eyes are dark hollows beneath their masks.

*The Breathers watch them approach, slick rain capes billowing in the wind that exits from the long tunnel mouth. They enter, watched by the stares of the uneasy guards, their vinyl-glossed hands gripping white on their squared, efficient State rifles.

*It is not long before the group reach the Reception, beyond the heavy concrete-filled steel vaultway. The walls are polished; gleaming white, and the echo of distant, sorrowful music fills the room as they fall in beside and behind Lysdritch.

* Lysdritch looks down at the invitation and then back to the Clerk. Then their hand, noticeably trembling now, is brought back in and goes up and across to their left shoulder to touch the row of metacarpal bones sewn onto the robe.

[Lysdritch] I-I - *They stop and clear their throat* I beg your pardon? I was not aware that there were s-s-stipulations to this Gathering?

*Aware of more people around, Lysdritch lets their hand drop. With a sharp sigh, Lysdritch turns away. [Lysdritch] Well. It is your b-benefactor’s loss. I d-do hope he doesn’t fall ill.

*There is a look of collusion between the smiling, pallid Clerks. A Machinist steps forward, brushing Lysdritch. It is Demeter; the gilded goddess of Agriculture. In the eyes of the mask glass spectacles shine. He approaches the desk.

[Demeter] Now look here, you little vipers, you’ve no right to impede this-

*He glances quickly to Lysdritch, caped and masked.

[Demeter] - person’s - access to this Facility!

[Clerk] Their invitation has expired.

[Demeter] There’s no damned time limit stated. We’ve come a long way, and we expect better service! Aren’t there any Wards here that aren’t the third-rate scrapings of some lice-riddled PRI-FAC? I want a word with your Head Functionary! Immediately! *The Wards, cowed by the outburst, glance conspiratorially at one another. Their dark smiles falter. *Demeter turns dramatically to the others, his hands on his hips. Beneath the mask his voice is metallic and rasping.

[Demeter] Oh, you wait until Laurence Fairfax hears about this! I’m a close personal friend of his, you know! Oh, yes, this is quite at variance with his vision of the perfect Facility, isn’t it?

*He snaps back to the pair at the desk.

[Demeter] What are your names and numbers? I’m reporting you both.

*There is a moment of silence. The Clerks flick eyes to one another.

[Clerk] There... Has been a misunderstanding. All invitations are valid.

[Male Clerk] Your Functionaries apologise for any inconvenience caused. [Demeter] Well, I should jolly well think so. Disgraceful! I’d expect better from a pair of nettle-eating AGRI-Wards!

[Clerk] … Please proceed with your group.

*Demeter takes Lysdritch by the arm and propels them through the waiting area. The Machinists follow, masks glinting in the humming fluorescent light. As they reach the door to the corridor that leads into the vast, blue-lit Facility, Demeter turns back to where the Clerks nervously whisper. A hand reaches to push up spectacles, where they might rest under his mask.

[Demeter] And I’m still reporting you!

*The first Clerk stands. She speaks clearly and tonelessly. [Clerk] My name is S_R. [Male Clerk] … Mine is C_K.

*They watch as the group leaves. The Clerk sits, in silence. They stare ahead.

[Clerk] What is a nettle. [Male Clerk] Ask your filthy soil-nailed AGRI husband. [Clerk] We aren’t…

[Male Clerk] You are.

*Once the group is out of sight Hephaestus coughs*