You don't recognize that word, assuming it's a name. Probably a diety here, though it's alarming that V would throw around a [[name]] like that so casually if that's the case.You find yourself leaning forwards, colliding with the [[person]] seated in front of you and gripping some part of their clothing. It feels oddly familiar, but you can't focus on how ungrounding it is past the feeling of another person holding you. Their hands move from yours up to your shoulders and around your back, holding you together while you find the strength to open your [[eyes]].(set: $cloak to (passage:)'s name)
You broke into the stores of wine, once. Your latest line of [[questioning|questions]] had left you with a couple grip-strength bruises and the knowledge that there was an unseen line you had crossed. What you are cannot be [[changed]].
(if: $logic is "represent")[You got lucky, that time. Or maybe you didn't. You remember reaching down, feeling the fabric of chance bend and twist between your fingers. Out of curiosity and quashed inhibitions, you grabbed and you pulled. No one came to check that night, and no one was there to watch you slip out the next morning. You wrapped the idea of this power around yourself and held on tight, sometimes feeling it like a comfort and sometimes like chains.
You're very glad that no one ever [[found out|represent]].]Your ability to ignore your perception of things certainly can change though. The liquid in the casks tasted like the removal of a blindfold and the tightening of a noose, or maybe the opposite. Any attempts you made at standing were met with waves of dizziness, everything seeming to be slightly further away from you than you expected.
In that moment you knew, with a certainty you'd never experienced before, that this was not [[real|stillhere]].(set: $cloak to (passage:)'s name)
(set: $counter to -1)
"[[Polyester|fabric]]."
"Just like everything else!"
V sighs. "Sure, just like everything else."You're alone in trying to figure it out. You feel the deep injustice of this, though it's not like it can be changed. You're just something different, and there's no one who's going to be able to understand it enough to change anything, not really. You're just going to have to tough it out [[by yourself|logic]]."Come on, you're alright, I've got you, (link-reveal: "you're safe here")[(show: ?safe)]."
|safe)[The ground underneath you had changed to soft grass, sun-warmed and fine. The fact that you can feel the sun at all is alarming, the warmth of its light an unusual sensation. A very light breeze drifts throug the air, a gentle caress barely enough to move a couple strands of (link-reveal: "hair")[(show: ?strands)].]
|strands)[You reach a hand out, feeling for the fabric of your reality, grasping for even a shred of what you consider familiar. You find only soft grasses and sands that make up wherever you find yourself (link-reveal: "collapsed")[(show: ?tear)].]
|tear)[You tear at the ground, searching for that uncomfortable but ultimately familiar feeling of threads loosely woven, but you only find thin roots and the occasional pebble as hands take your own to [[stop]] your movements.]“So I’m V, I’m the one who... holds jurisdiction over your world, let’s say. Save the more complex thoughts for later. You know how you can have some control over your world? Manipulating chance, I think is your thing. I’m kinda the main guy for all that, to put it really stupidly. I knew there was another one of you kicking around somewhere, but you were real hard to find. Usually you guys end up in a good bit of shit before I can pull you out, but it looks like you’ve kept a pretty solid lock on– well. Everything about you, really. (link-reveal: "What's your name, kid?")[(show: ?name)]”
|name)[You open your mouth to answer, but V quickly (link-reveal: "stops")[(show: ?stop)] you.]
|stop)["No, not that name. The one you call yourself. Like I said, you've kept everything down pretty damn well but this isn't [[the place for that|name]]."]Sitting up, you see a large clearing stretching out in front of you, enough to hold your entire village with room to spare. It's dotted with tables, each with what appear to be attached benches, many vacant. Some, however, have groups sitting around them, for the most part chattering amicably. You can occasionally hear yelling over the soft sounds of the breeze through the grass, clearly good-natured spats. Nothing being said is truly legible to you, sitting far enough away from them that words are impossible to [[understand]].(set: $counter to it + 1)
(if: $counter is >=1)[You can feel reality around you, the warp and weft flowing easily under your fingers.
](if: $counter is >=2)[You think about entrapment. This body, this fabric, this life.
](if: $counter is >=3)[The word that comes to mind is polyester, but you can't place the meaning. You know it's not something you've heard before.
](if: $counter is >=4)[You feel it holding you and everything else, a facsimile of reality that everyone else seems to passively accept as if ther wasn't any other option possible.
](if: $counter is >=5)[Your luck shouldn't be this good, especially in the face of your doubts. And yet, no one has asked any questions of you, despite your tendency to ask your own. You wonder what would happen if you tried to exert the control you worry you may be capable of.
](if: $counter is >0)[(link: 'Think about something else.')[(goto: (history:)'s last)]]
(if: $cloak is "cloak")[You can feel reality around you, the warp and weft flowing easily under your fingers. You think about entrapment. This body, this fabric, this life. The word that comes to mind is polyester, but you can't place the meaning. You know it's not something you've heard before. You feel it holding you and everything else, a facsimile of reality that everyone else seems to passively accept as if ther wasn't any other option possible. Your luck shouldn't be this good, especially in the face of your doubts. And yet, no one has asked any questions of you, despite your tendency to ask your own. You wonder what would happen if you tried to exert the control you worry you may be capable of.
It's strange to have the world you live in feel so fake. It takes its toll on you– you can feel that it's something outside of yourself, and more importantly that while you exist in it, you are not a part of it. The control you have feels unnatural and wrong. To be fair, everything about you feels unnatural and wrong. Hopefully, you'll be able to figure out how to fix yourself. Or maybe you were never the problem at all.]The fog curls around your legs, a form of subtle containment like you're wrapped head to toe in gauze. You thought about leaving, once. You aren't going to make that [[mistake|punishment]] again.The world doesn't deserve to tear. It isn't kind to you; you can recognize your place in this. Your people are a steadfast, head-down folk, keeping their hooves to the earth and staunchly rejecting the common notions of what a satyr is. Rejections of this only brings despair, and a part of you still believes that it is some form of cosmic retribution, despite mostly being able to accept that [[it's just people shunning you|represent]].Once you grant yourself a moment to catch your breath, you attempt a logical path through what you know is a deeply illogical experience. You sit down and properly take a look at your surroundings, hoping for some grounding in the familiar forest around you. What you find is a mesh and tangle of [[thread|fabric]], each strand weaving through and constricting your fingers. You try not to tear anything, even though you deeply want release. Despite the isolating and uncaring nature of that which surrounds you, you remain steadfast in your desire to keep it [[intact]].
You feel another hand touch yours through the fabric, then break through cleanly to lace fingers with yours and [[pull]].You've suffered a lot, you know. It's hard to really accept, especially when everyone seems to function just fine under everything you live by. You can tell they know it, too. You've seen how everyone looks just a little bit past you, as if they aren't seeing one of their own but instead yet another problem for them to solve, or even more likely, brush off onto the will of the [[forest|containment]].
You're really not sure what makes you so different from everyone else. There's nothing that makes your life particularly difficult, there's plenty of responsibilities that have yet to rest on your shoulders. And yet, [[here you are|logic]].You begin to stutter. “I– are you sure? This isn’t like, a trick right? Or I mean I guess it couldn’t really be either way, this is either some kinda hallucination or it’s actually happening to me in which case anything that could come of this is honestly the least of my worries (link-reveal: "because")[(show: ?because)]–”
|because)["You're rambling. Name. Hurry up. I can answer any questions you have in a second but [[Christ]], kid. I just need something to (link-reveal: "call")[(show: ?call)] you."]
|call)[“Uhm, Royce? Is Royce ok? I didn't even know that's something you could choose, I mean, I tried to ask once but– anyways. Were you talking about how everything feels like it’s made of fabric? I’m not crazy? What is it anyways, I don’t even know– wait. No, wait, I do! It’s– [[what’s your robes made of?|cloak]]”]They appear to be human, wearing clothes that are wholly unfamiliar to you. A shapeless shirt, tucked into a pair of sturdy-looking pants and ending in shoes that seem to be made of a rough canvas and not much else. Draped over their shoulders is a robe that seems to swallow them save for where it opens at the front.
You don't recognize the fabric its made of, slightly too shiny and unpleasant to the touch in a way that's familiar and yet impossible to place. It's a bright, unnatural red, but everything around you seems bright and unnatural relative to what you're used to. Even still, there's something about it that feels off relative to how [[solid|eyes]] everything else here is.
You recognize a familiar [[power|fabric]] bleeding off of them, though much more potent than what you feel from yourself."Breathe, kid. You're fine, I (link-reveal: "promise")[(show: ?promise)]."
|promise)[You try to sit up against the disorientation and unfamiliar sensations, brighter light that you've ever seen burning through your eyelids. You hold them shut at tight as you can, avoiding whatever change in your surroundings you know has happened. There is nothing you can do to avoid the solid feeling of the earth beneath you, nor the soft smell of flowers and petrichor. It's the most sensation you've experienced in years, maybe [[ever]].]Those old enough to enforce consequences know that the boredom is agony for you. You spend your time contemplating the exact kind of [[questions]] that landed you here. You dare not tell them, but something is [[wrong]].Realistically, any question is a bad question. They are very insistent that anything other than quiet obedience is cause for disdain. You've known for a long time that asking about the [[fabric]] was not worth the [[risk|punishment]].
(if: $cloak is "cellar")[Once, you had asked about change. It's hard to say that you like what you are, and what you're supposed to become as you get older. There's very few aspects of it that appeal to you. You learned to [[never|changed]] question it again.](set: $logic to (passage:)'s name)
You represent many of the aspects of satyrdom that your people hate–flighty and scatterbrained, living much more in your head over that which they call real. At least you avoid the hedonism, in small part because you're simply too young. More than that, though, you know [[intoxication|cellar]] just makes things worse.
At least it numbs things. Maybe that would be better than the fear and uncertainty you face [[now|pull]].(set: $counter to 0)
You walk through the [[forest]], each hoof-fall muted and soft. You understand that your task is [[punishment]].As you've been walking, the forest around you seems to become less and less coherent, the threads becoming more and more visible. The [[tapestry|fabric]] around you, synthesized by things you can feel but not explain, tugs at you mercilessly in an attempt to make you a part of the monotony.
You're so adjusted to the desire to give in that it takes you a moment to recognize that the feeling is coming from [[outside|tripping]] yourself."Hey, stop that, don't hurt yourself. How about– you know what, let’s just get you a bit more (link-reveal: "comfortable")[(show: ?comfortable)].”
|comfortable)[Hands change position against yours, gentle and firm in equal measure and solidifying the notion that you are no longer somewhere you understood. Any touch you've previously felt, few and far between as it was, always had an express (link-reveal: "purpose")[(show: ?purpose)] outside yourself– a direction, a punishment, a dismissal.]
|purpose)[It never really felt living, just a further brush and tangle of the same cloth that makes up everything else you understand. These unfamiliar hands hold yours in a way clearly meant for you, a communication between two that are [[alive]], no ulterior motive evident in the soft caress of thumbs over your knuckles.]You nearly collapse, hooves tripping over nothing but air. Usually it's your own mind inventing the tug of giving in, but it only takes a shred of introspection you've never been able to afford yourself to feel the difference. The way everything warps and weaves around you begins to feel [[malicious]], or more accurately, you finally realize that every urge you've felt to give in to normality has been an impulse coming from [[outside of you|logic]]."(link-reveal: "Where am I?")[(show: ?where)]"
|where)[You ask, with great hesitation. You're still unsure about the one holding you, despite the fact that they've shown you more care in the past few minutes than anyone has in your entire life.
They retreat from the embrace to look you in the eye, and [[take a deep breath in|welcome]].]"Welcome to the (link-reveal: "Basin")[(show: ?basin)]!"
|basin)[The figure says with enthusiasm and sarcasm in equal measure. You startle a bit at the volume, already nearing the limit of how much sensory input you can stand. You try to settle yourself to listen to the rest whatever [[explanation]] you're hoping to get.]Something is wrong. This much you are convinced of. You can feel the way it [[all|fabric]] bends under your will, but it's just infrequent enough that you can never prove it. You have to cope [[somehow|cellar]].