Wilderlands Mods (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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wildermemes2018-05-10 02:57 pm
wildermods) wrote in wildermemes2018-05-10 02:57 pm
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TEST DRIVE ※ 3
TEST DRIVE ※ 3
The spirits of the Green need defenders but the game of fate they must play makes it so that their plans are like a garden, always in need of careful pruning. Only certain individuals are capable of living a life of adventure -- and even many who are capable may not be the heroes the Wilderlands needs.
The only way for the Green to be sure is by providing a test -- and as far as tests go, this one's a doozy, because the situation is real. There are countless conflicts all over the Wilderlands that are in need of intervention, so the Green tosses you head first into one of them with no warning or explanation. During it, you may perhaps run into others like yourself, thrown in over their heads -- or into others that came to the Wilderlands before you. Either way, your only chance of getting through it is to work together with whatever other unfortunates you find.
Welcome to the wilds, hero. It's time to put on your ruby slippers, pick up your vorpal sword, and carry that ring into Mordor.
The ruling government of the Wizarding World is the Ministry of Magic, nestled away in the confines of Magical London. Most of the Ministry's departments are what one might expect of a typical government, filled with offices and cubicles and the usual trappings of government bureaucracy. Magical or not, a ruling government still needs a metric fuckton of paperwork, apparently.
But one department isn't like the rest. One department is an agency that handles the most secret and sensitive parts of the Wizarding World: The Department of Mysteries. This Department is filled with magical items and secrets from the world over, gathered by the department's mysterious agents, the Unspeakables. Here, alongside the deepest secrets of magic, the Unspeakables study the intangible mysteries of the universe, like love, space, thought, time, and death. With the Wizarding World now part of the Wilderlands, the agents have extended their secret-gathering to include secrets from the other worlds now attached to the Wilderlands, too.
You've been teleported to the Department of Mysteries for some unknown reason. It's after hours, so the Department is eerily empty and dimly lit only by blue-white torches. The spirits of the Green wants you here for a reason, but all you have are their enigmatic whispers...
See the secrets in the room full of stars. Destroy the spheres before the masked ones take them.
Whether those two ideas are meant to be related is difficult to tell, but with the many odd dangers of this place, one thing is clear:
To find out, you're going to have to survive all kinds of weird-ass magical bullshit first.
A. WRANGLE MAGICAL CREATURES
Some of the most dangerous magical creatures in existence are kept in the Department of Mysteries for study, and even more are brought in every day so magizoologists can add more data to the Unspeakables' body of research. One section of the Department is filled with pens, cages, and magical indoor habitats that house creatures like brutish trolls, venomous acromantulas, screeching banshees, ravenous kappas, and shadowy and suffocating lethifolds. With the additional exposure to new lands caused by the formation of the Wilderlands, the Unspeakables have started to collect creatures that are native to other realms as well.B. AVOID OUT OF CONTROL MAGIC
Normally, this wouldn't be a problem, but today isn't a normal day. Someone has gone through the section and opened latches, shattered glass enclosures, and broken open cages. Now the Zoology Office of the Department of Mysteries is...well, a zoo. A lethal one, at that.
You may find yourself facing dangerous creatures, including deceptive ones like the tentacle monster that disguises itself as a statue in a water fountain, then drags its victims in to try to drown and eat them if they get too close.
Or you might have to face a boggart, a creature that bursts out of the wardrobe it hides in, taking on the form of someone's greatest fear. This can even include taking on the image of dead loved ones. The boggart can only be banished back into its wardrobe if the person facing it wills themselves to work past their fear and attacks it with magic or force to scare it back in.
Maybe the creature you face will come as a total surprise.
Whether you wrangle creatures just enough to escape them, or plan to valiantly try to put them back in their cages, you're guaranteed to have your hands full.
[ooc: Feel free to use any magical creature from anything with this prompt, as creatures from more worlds than the Harry Potter universe are kept here. If you want more information on a creature or want a random creature thrown your way, comment here.]
Even if your character avoids the wild creatures running loose other dangers can be found here. The Unspeakables have an entire area devoted to experimental magic, the experimental wand and staff room. Due to its security spells being disrupted, the wands are blasting magic all over the place, making it so someone that has misfortune to wander in may find themselves cursed, hexed, jinxed, or otherwise altered by a random spell.C. BEAN SOME BRAINS
Any effect could be caused by a spell, ranging from your legs turning to jelly, to your face getting covered in boils, to your hair being turned to worms.
[ooc: Again, feel free to make up any effect you want. If you'd like a random effect chosen by the mods comment here.]
In one empty room, there's an enormous glass tank of dark green liquid. In it, there are usually pearly white brains floating around -- usually -- but because the tank has been broken, the brains are on the loose, wandering the halls of the Department. Whenever they find people, they reach out and grab them with tendrils of glowing thought and memory that unravel like rolls of film.D. SEE THE DANCING OF THE SPHERES
If a brain captures you and someone else at the same time in its tentacles, you'll each see each a random memory from the other person's mind. The longer you're trapped, the more memories you'll both share, and the more intense they'll get.
It's possible to escape from the grip of one of the brains, but you'll have to fight your way free with the help of whoever you're ensnared with.
The Space Room is what the Unspeakables use to try to uncover the physical nature of the universe. This is the room full of stars that the Green wanted you to see. Here, the entire multiverse is visible, little universes floating in the starry void. The images swirl and zoom in on little worlds within those universes and show worlds getting...dismantled? Strips of land are shown getting ripped off and transplanted on to a shimmering, shifting impossible Frankenstein of a world that keeps expanding in size.E. DODGE DEATH EATERS
The dimensionally strip-mined planets that are left behind? Apparently, they cave in on themselves and crumble in a mess of fiery molten lava and earthquakes that burn away what's left of the surface, making it uninhabitable. The peoples whose lands have been transplanted to the Wilderlands have long had questions about the parts of their worlds that have been left behind and apparently the answers aren't pretty.
Even worse? Your world is visible here, too. When you think of it or wonder about it, it suddenly appears and the Frankenstein planet that is the Wilderlands is shown next to it, its magic tugging at your homeworld's skin, which is slowly starting to unravel and reach ever so slightly towards it.
The magic creating the Wilderlands is strong and before long, it won't just be fantasy worlds that un-spool and become a part of it - if the Unspeakables' projections are right, perhaps it's just a matter of time before all worlds have chunks pulled into the Wilderlands - with only disasters, calamity, and mass extinction events happening to the chunks that are left behind.
This is the other place you're needed, a massive hall filled with racks upon racks of blue globes. These globes have shimmering, moving images inside them, recorded memories of prophets and oracles relating their prophecies.F. FREESTYLE
You must destroy some of these prophecies, because the "masked ones" have come. Death Eaters - once servants of the Dark Lord Voldemort, now servants of the Unfinished Princess - have descended on the Department of Mysteries. In fact, they're the source of all the security breaches and magical creatures being sprung loose. These robed and masked wizards start flinging colorful spells and curses your way, cackling sadistically, as they chase you between the different racks of prophecies.
The Green whispers its reminder: Destroy the spheres before the masked ones take them.
The Green has enchanted you with several gifts. One is a special vision that lets you see what you need to see; the spheres they want you to destroy glow with a gentle light the same color as new plant shoots so that you can find them. The other gift is an immunity to the enchantment around the spheres. Normally, people who try to take a prophecy that isn't labeled with their name are cursed to go insane. But the Green has made it so you can pick up any prophecy you want.
Some of the ones they want you to destroy are labeled with the names of people that are leaders and people of influence in this universe: Tiffany Aching, Aragorn, Harry Potter, Aang, and others. Some of the globes may perhaps be labeled with your name or the names of those you just met in the Department of Mysteries who have been in the Wilderlands longer. Unfortunately, even if your name is labeled on a globe, you don't have time to view the prophecy within and if you hesitate the Green reassures you there are other ways to find out what's prophesied:
There are other prophets, other ways to see.
You cannot hesitate. The Death Eaters have found an immunity to the curse that protects the globes, too. You must fight the Death Eaters and destroy them first, before they fall into the wrong hands.
The Department can hold all kinds of weirdness and secrets. Feel free to make up a strange scenario or an entire section whole-cloth if you want!
✦ Feel free to play around with powers. If your character has powers from canon you want to play around, go for it. If you'd like to test out possibilities for game powers, also go for it.
✦ All the technology is broke. The magic of the Wilderlands messes up technology so that it doesn't work. Any weapons beyond the level of a crossbow will suddenly cease to function, including guns. Repair is impossible, as they'll seem to be in functional condition and still not work.
✦ This TDM is open to everyone. However, top-levels should be made for potential new characters only. Characters currently in the game should only tag top-levels.
✦ Potential players may use test drive threads as their log samples. However, at least one post in their thread must fit the requirements for apps, both in length (200 words) and in quality. If you do plan on using a thread as a sample, please make sure the writing throughout your threads is a good example of your writing skills and has some solid examples of the character's voice.
✦ Current players can count TDMs towards AC. They can only count towards comment-based AC proofs.
✦ Potential players can opt to keep these threads as game canon when they app in, or start over fresh, based on preference. The magic bringing them to the game universe can fog their memories, if players don't want their character to remember TDM threads when introing into the game.
✦ The game has limited slots. Please keep this in mind! As of this post 23 of 30 player slots have been filled, with one app still pending. This means 6 player slots are currently open.
no subject
Hey, you ugly shithead!
[The fountain ignores him again, but the tentacles, in their efforts to follow Neffa, are coming at him like a train anyway. He doesn't want the stapler now, but he takes it, slipping and trying not to crash into anything as he turns and starts sprinting down the hall. He isn't fast to start with, but he doesn't want to just ditch Neffa, so he slows himself with a hand to the wall and then slaps a hand against Neffa's back, shoving him ahead and towards one of the open doors.]
Get in there! [Dixon takes the doorway corner fast, almost sliding into Neffa and instead clipping the frame. His hand darts out and he grabs Neffa by the collar (the thread count on the outfit is higher than probably any fabric Dixon's touched in his life) and yanks him into the office. He throws Neffa to the ground, then slams the office door closed, just in time for the tentacle to smash against the front of door. The tentacles bang and slap, trying to get into the office, and still slipping around Dixon shoves the office's desk against the door.
Then just about collapses, gasping for breath, because that was a lot of exertion for a lifelong smoker with a back injury. He's still clutching the stapler.]
no subject
He gets himself sitting up but doesn't try for more than that, at the moment - Neffa's fit in the way of somebody who likes to look fit, not in the way of somebody who enjoys serious exercise, and his terror is catching up to him now on top of it. For a few seconds they both just gasp, while the tentacles slam angrily-- but, thank all the gods, uselessly-- against the door.
Finally, Neffa stirs himself to clamber to his feet and approach the door, pulling one of the wooden pieces from his sash as he does. It's clear when he presses it to the crack in the door how bad his hands are shaking. He gets his mouth as close to it as he dares and whispers at it for a few seconds; there's a brief flare of yellow light from the carvings, and the wood fuses itself to the door and the wall beside it. The slamming of the beast against the door doesn't get less violent, but the rattle of the door is a little less pronounced.
He returns to the same place on the floor he first landed. It's not clear whether he means to sit so... all-at-once, or if his legs aren't doing a great job holding him up at the moment.]
S-sir, [he says, and the problem with gesturing is he can see his own hands trembling, but he has to talk so he doesn't completely lose it, and talking means gesturing, so he'll live with it, he supposes.] I wish, f-first of all, to acknowledge that I am in your debt-- but also to suggest that perhaps, our situation being yet, ah, unresolved-- [He has to speak up to be heard over a fresh battery of tentacles.] --we... we wait to settle accounts until such time as-- as we have had a full reckoning... [He swallows.] ...until such time as we understand our relative positions, and the extent of all services rendered, life-saving and otherwise-- though I will of course contract with you at that time, s-sealed and witnessed--
[This would be pointless gibberish even to another magician, but going through the formality seems to be steadying him slightly.]
no subject
Catching his breath, he just sort of stares at Neffa, looking both confused and a little annoyed by the rambling. It may be soothing to Neffa, but it's trying on Dixon's frayed nerves; he hates feeling like he has to work to keep up with someone, and it happens all too frequently, and right now he's trying to do so with his lungs and back screaming and his head all scrambled and his heart slamming away in what appears to be his throat. He holds up a hand; his is shaking too.] Stop.
[He spends a moment just staring into space, wincing occasionally when the tentacles slam into the door particularly dramatically, and then reaches to touch his mid-back and feel if the bandage there has come loose. It has, and Dixon's fingers come back with a smear of blood, not an alarming amount but a definite 'you just reopened some stitches' amount. And then he just pants some more, not worrying all that much about it and certainly not entertaining the idea of standing up yet.
He finally realizes he's holding the stapler in the other hand and tosses it aside with a little metal clatter. The burn of pain and fatigue in him starts its inevitable perversion into the various permutations of anger: irritation, short-temperedness, frustration. Not a Rageizard, but the baby Angermeleons.
He turns that pissiness onto Neffa, because sitting there babbling Neffa stands in for a long line of things Dixon doesn't particularly like. Black folks. Poncy black folks with more money than him who talk a million miles an hour like government bureaucrats.]
What the fuck were you thinking, going out there and getting yourself wrapped up in that? [He picks a paperclip up off the floor and flicks it at Neffa.] You could have gotten us both killed.
no subject
It's the sight of blood on Dixon's fingers that shuts him up. His eyes go wide, and his face turns a shade paler. He flinches at the stapler's clatter-- as far as he's concerned it's a weapon, and Dixon proficient in its use. This is somebody capable of violence. Somebody it's a bad idea to piss off. He actually puts effort into dodging the paperclip, he's so on edge.]
I-- I didn't mean to. [Indignation is the most comfortable territory for Neffa, with bewilderment now out of the way.] I didn't approach it thinking it was going to attack me-- you saw it! It looked like a fountain!
[The fountain paws furiously at the outside doorhandle, as though for emphasis.]
Anyway I told you I intended to make good when the situation was resolved-- if you'd like me to swear on it I certainly will, though given present circumstances I still think it would be reasonable to wait--! [He makes the gesture for an offered promise more emphatically. All Dixon has to do is make the corresponding gesture and the matter will be settled for the time being, so--! (It doesn't occur to him that anyone might not know that gesture, or clock that what he's doing with his hands is of any significance.)
[He pauses. Reorganizes his priorities, with an effort of will.] --but you-- you're... injured...? [He sounds like he hopes Dixon will deny it. Like it'd be way better for him if they weren't dealing with that on top of everything else.]
no subject
[Unless a bemused shrug or peeling off socks is the corresponding gesture, Neffa's not getting shit.
Dixon hefts himself to his feet; it's not an easy gesture, and makes him look heavy and clumsy. When the tentacle jiggles the door handle again, Dixon slams his elbow back into the door, like a rude sort of "go away" bang. Get him frustrated enough and he just starts hitting things; it's not like he knows how to deal with things in a more productive way.]
I'm fine. Got stabbed in the back by some asshole a few days ago. Probably had it coming. [That's been his line since, what with people constantly asking if he's okay or how bad it is. The tentacle goes for the door handle again and Dixon glares at it, more annoyed than anything that they aren't done with this bullshit yet. And he takes a good look at the room they're in.
It's not ideal.
The first problem is that there's no window or any other sort of door here. He feels the hair on his arms prick up slightly, remembering what it's like to be trapped in a burning room; he lifts his hand up to absentmindedly touch the the faint burn scars on the side of his face and neck. The second problem is that this room is full of straight-up junk: little velvet sacks spilling rubies onto the shelves; frames full of pinned butterflies with wings still flapping; an aquarium tank containing what appears to be a suspended jackalope running in perpetuity; a spinning wheel; textbooks with gold leaf and titles written in Latin. And still no cigarettes.
It's like some kind of insane puzzle laid out. Unfortunately, problem-solving is not Dixon's strong suit. He can only hope it's Neffa's, but he's getting the clawing sensation in his gut that it probably isn't.]
You look like you'd fit right in here. [Dixon looks like he could spit. The excuses, the stammering, the effete-ness, the flailing his hands around like he's really bad at swatting gnats - he hates all of it. He grinds his teeth in the back and walks over to the aquarium, spitefully ignoring that the tentacle is still rattling the handle.] You got any bright ideas? Because we could use one. Maybe use one of those chalk things to teleport us out.
[He gestures at the wood conduits. And because he has zero impulse control, he leans over the tank and reaches in and pets the horned rabbit.]
no subject
Plenty to observe in this room, now he's calmed down enough to look at something besides the shadows of the monster at the door. He gives Dixon his side of the small room. He can tell he's made a bad first impression.
Well, no one forced you to come tearing to my rescue--!
Of course he reaches for the gems first. To his disappointment, they're smooth-faceted, not marked with any magician's seal or carved with spirit-marks. He turns one of them over in his hands, wondering if he could do something useful with them-- but no. The only spirits here are the ones he came in with. He can't make new spells in this strange, empty place.]
I do not fit in here, [he informs Dixon, letting the bag of rubies drop back onto its shelf. One hand brushes over the useless conduits.] As for magic to get us out of here-- sure, I could do it, if I had nine other people with me, and a diamond the size of an egg, and a spirit big enough, and a royal commission, but regrettably-- [A sweeping gesture at the room, indicating that none of these things are present.
There is a sword hanging on one wall, the hilt worn, the blade inscribed with letters in a flowing alphabet. Neffa walks straight past it, focusing instead on the textbooks. The text means nothing to him. One could be called Fountain Monster-Slaying Made Fantastically Easy and he wouldn't know.]
...I don't suppose you can read these. [Whether it's a comment on Dixon's equal confusion about the purpose of this room, or on the fact that everything about him screams uneducated Ristopan from a low-class quarter people like me would never walk through thus far, is not immediately clear.]
no subject
[Two can play the disdain game, Neffa. But something about Neffa's comment about whether he can read them stings, and he takes his arm out of the tank and yanks a book off the shelf, opening it up to see what it is. It's not in any language he's ever seen, much less can read.]
This is in Chinese. [It is not.] No good.
[Dixon finally investigates the sword, taking it off the wall and nearly toppling over at the weight of it. Immediately he drops it, and it clangs against the ground and narrowly avoids sheering off a bare toe. Swords always look so easy to carry and swing around in media, but in reality, they're fucking heavy.
Having realized that, and flushing a little with embarrassment, he picks it back up, letting the tip rest on the ground. The tentacle hasn't wacked on the door in a few minutes. Dixon wonders if maybe the tentacle has lost interest in them and gone back to happily bubbling up water.]
I ain't laying money on you knowing how to use this, either. [As if he does.]
no subject
[Neffa’s looking at the sword as though he’s afraid it’s going to come to life and attack him. The only swords he’s ever seen are hanging in museums or at the hips of certain of the palace guard - and those only from a great, great distance, once or twice, when he stood with his family in the public viewing places for royal parades. Swords these days belong to classical poetry. Even the gesture for it is outdated, now just a mildly obscene piece of slang his father’s generation invented before they got old.]
Of course I don’t, [he says, nervous and trying not to sound nervous.] ...What do you intend to do with it?
no subject
[Granted, this will mean moving the desk that's currently blocking the door. The silence behind the door goes on uninterrupted, even when Dixon starts to shove the desk aside, starting to huff for breath again.]
Hey, if we're lucky maybe this thing'll be asleep. Try not to piss it off again. [This is all Neffa's fault.]
no subject
[Holy shit. This might get violent. Neffa feels, for a second, like the ground is really, really far away. He steadies himself one-handed on the table beside him.
He wants to throw all his weight against the desk and stop Dixon moving it. Are you fucking crazy?! Why would you go back out there?!, he wants to yell.
...Gods, they don’t have a choice, do they?
Neffa takes a shuddering breath.] —Wait! Wait.
[He crosses the room and grabs... the stapler. It is, to him, the only other weapon in evidence. He holds it like he saw Dixon hold it, tight in his fist like brass knuckles. He considers the conduits at his belt; selects one; slowly brings it and the stapler together; and whispers to them for a few seconds. There’s a brief flash of light in the conduit’s carvings, and then a soft yellow light flares gently from within the stapler, where the staple refills would sit.
Neffa returns to Dixon at the door. His face is ashen.]
...Okay, [he says.] I— tell me when to— to throw it like you did. When you need a distraction. And— [He hesitates, then proffers his free hand, palm up.] Look. If you— do you swear to release me from your debt, in the event that you should die in this endeavor? Or, uh— is there— is there family I should contact, to take over the contract if it... goes badly.....?
[He trails off. Just saying it aloud is making him feel nauseous. And he’s not even talking about his death.]
no subject
[Dixon's not even offended that Neffa's not going to back him up. He does look at the stapler with an expression of relative bafflement, but Neffa explains it and, well. Wizard magic. He figures it must be a flash bomb or something now.]
I'm not gonna tell you how to get in touch with my momma. My momma don't talk to...people of color. [Look, he got the modern terminology right, Chief would be so proud of him.] I ain't swearing to anything.
[He tightens his grip on the sword (do they make these out of lead?) and listens one more time to the other side of the door. Nothing. He slowly creaks the door open.
Still nothing. He gives Neffa a jerk of his head.]
You coming?
no subject
[He glances down at his clothes. They are more colorful than Dixon's. (More evidence toward the 'egregiously low-class' theory.) He isn't sure why that's relevant to the matter of the implied agreement between them.
In fact, it's the I ain't swearing to anything that gets Neffa's full attention. It brings his train of thought to a screeching halt. His expression is caught between bewildered and offended-- like this is such an unthinkable thing to say, he doesn't even know how to be insulted by it.
Because they have to have an agreement. If Dixon dies with this contract unresolved, Neffa will find himself with a complicated set of obligations to fulfill, which will follow him throughout his life and into his own death, a black mark against him in the ledger-books of the gods, a weight of conscience he'll have no way to lift. And Dixon will carry the other half of that obligation with him into the afterlife, tethering himself to the world, leaving himself caught in a clerical nothing-space between worlds while the gods work out payment--
--and now he's opening the door-- there's no time--!
Fuck. Neffa realizes there's only one possible way to avoid this outcome: They both have to live to resolve the contract after this is over. (He would! Of course he would drop out of his own world and end up in an unresolvable debt-paradox with some ignorant, belligerent foreigner! That's just the kind of thing that happens to him!)
He looks down at the stapler in his hand. Swallows.]
...Yeah. I'm coming.
[He follows Dixon out a step. The fountain remains quiet. Neffa points at one of its statues, stone-still, facing to their left, posed slightly differently from when he originally entered the room.] There! [It's a hissed whisper.] That one. That's the one that comes to life.
no subject
Dragging the tip of the sword against the floor, Dixon squints at the statue. He quietly walks down the hall, away from it, to the double door at the end, but a quick shove shows that it's locked. So the only way out is back through the atrium and down the hall on the other side.
Still walking softly, which would be cautious except for the shrrrrrrk of the sword tip against the marble floor, Dixon turns his interest back to the fountain, approaching tentatively and then, as it doesn't move, a bit more confidently. He closes the space between him and it, then snaps his fingers in the stone face. Nothing. They could just walk out, past the atrium.
Well, Dixon never did anything the clever way in his whole life. He lifts the sword and tries to slash through the statue.]
no subject
[It's high-pitched, tinged with hysteria. Neffa finds that, while he had the guts to follow Dixon all the way out the door, he does not have the guts to follow him further. He watches in mute horror as Dixon crosses one end of the room to the other; winces in every muscle as the sword tip drags on the stone floor; reaches out helplessly as he raises the sword.
Here's the fucking joke: Neffa was pointing at the wrong statue.
The sword glances harmlessly off the stone. Meanwhile: The statue on the other side of the fountain snakes out long, stone-colored tentacles, dipping low along the floor, going for Dixon's ankles as they'd gone for Neffa's.
Neffa looks at the stapler in his hand. Seized by a sudden mad courage, he hefts it; makes a swift gesture over it; takes one long stride, and, torn sleeve billowing, flings it overhand at the fountain. It's not Dixon's fastball pitch by a long shot, but that's not the intention: All he needs to do is release the spell on it.
The spell he attached to the stapler is an easy, simple home-security spell, popular among people in close-packed residential areas. Its name is Scream.
As the stapler soars through the air, it lets out a piercing shriek, swelling in volume, echoing off the atrium ceilings, bouncing off every stone surface and taking strength from its own reverberation. The sound, which Dixon has no reason to know, is borrowed from a kind of desert vulture common to Neffa's home city, audible from up to half a mile away on a quiet day. In this room, it's absolutely deafening.
The statue recoils, its tentacles flying back like a person trying to clap their hands over their ears, for all it's a fountain and has no ears in evidence.] Get out! [Neffa shrieks, now one entire step away from the doorway and still not making any move to get closer.]
no subject
Fuck the sword. Fuck this, honestly. Dixon's already sacrificed his shoes to this insanity, and it's clearly not a great tool for beating himself up, so Dixon decides on a resounding "NOPE" for this entire scenario and goes where Neffa is telling him to go.
He grabs Neffa by the wrist, still covering one ear, and drags Neffa down the hall. He runs until Neffa's wrist is red and his hand is sore and the screaming is only a ringing down the hall. His ears feel stuffed with noise, as if it were something that could be boxed up and crammed into one place; the only thing that seems to cut through it is the jackhammer slam of his heart. Even his breath, which is surely a dramatic wheeze by now, makes no indent on the block of sound in his head.
He shoves Neffa against the wall and smacks him on the side of the head. Not hard, but enough to show he's ticked and could smack harder, if he wanted to.]
What the fuck were you thinking? Setting off the alarm like that? [He's shouting at the top of his lungs and, given the ringing in his ears, still can't hear himself. Nor can he really consider that possibly, one shouldn't go swinging swords at inanimate objects in a haunted museum (or whatever this is) if they don't want to run into inexplicable consequences.]
no subject
He is talking-more-loudly-than-would-otherwise-be-appropriate in someone's face, though. His voice threatens, but does not yet deliver, a shriek.]
What the fuck was I thinking!? I saved your life! I told you to signal for a distraction! [It's hard to gesticulate in quarters this close-- one of the reasons it's impossibly rude to get this close-- but he's going for it, his trembling hands inches from Dixon's face.] What the fuck were you thinking? It wasn't moving! It wasn't attacking! We could have slipped out without antagonizing it, but no--!
[He narrows his eyes, makes a closed fist and thumps it sharply against his own chest.] If not for my spell you'd be hanging upside down with your head underwater, slipping across the border between worlds carrying an unfulfilled contract, leaving me to clean up your mess because you were too short-sighted to take care of your own affairs-- though I suppose I shouldn't have expected better from someone stupid enough to attack the fucking statue--!
[He's delivering on that shriek now.]
no subject
He totally wasn't giving in to the caveman urge of "I could smash this".
He gives Neffa a final shove against the wall and stalks back, which could appear intimidating except that he's clearly hampered by the injury on his back, and instead looks just a bit like a little old man with hip pain as he moves.
Truth be told, he doesn't even consider leaving Neffa here. Dixon bunked on a solid 80% of the duties of police work and phoned in another 10% back when he had a job, but "don't abandon civilians in strange and dangerous circumstances" is pretty fundamental. And some part of him will always strive to be a cop again. Not will be, but will strive to be.]
Shut up. [He does a small fake-out lunge towards Neffa to threaten what could happen if Neffa doesn't quit it.] We don't know what's out here.
[As the ringing in his ears fade, the silence around them seems to flood in to fill the space. The hall remains wide, pocked by little offices, but there doesn't seem to be an exit anywhere nearby.]
And we don't know if nobody else is in here.