hadriel_logs | Intro Log: Mimicry

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Intro Log: Mimicry

Who: New arrivals and everyone else!
What: The intro log for March
Where: The colosseum and all around the city.
When: March 10th-16th
Warnings: Fresh meat and fatal sweets.

Rise and shine, it's time to meet your new home! While the two suns overhead might make it a bit of a scorcher, there's plenty of shade to be found around you, so get out of the sun before you burn! While you're at it, you might want to introduce yourself to the others who woke up in the same predicament as you- or just run off on your own, that's cool too.

Be careful though, because you're arriving with a bunch of, uh- inanimate objects? Wait, that's no chair! These are mimics, small gelatinous spider-like creatures that can transform into inanimate objects and then pop out to scare you. If you can keep calm, mimics are no big deal, but if you give them the opportunity they will jump onto your head and suffocate you, before using your corpse to reproduce. Nice!

That's alright though, because if you can survive the mimics then you have delicious food waiting for you as a reward! In a shocking twist of events, the items supplied by the Door have no significant twist, save for the desire to eat every single one you can get your hands on. They're Girl Scout Cookies! Long the envy of boy scouts everywhere, these delicious treats will have you munching away your daily caloric intake in no time!

Just, uh- be careful, as the mimics seemed to have caught onto everyone's desire for these colorful boxes. Approach your cookies carefully!

Once you've escaped the mimics and grabbed some snacks, you're ready for the wider world of Hadriel. Feel free to go explore the rest of the city! Find a house, a new monster, a project to help with, or simply scavenge for supplies. Good luck, and enjoy your stay in Hadriel!

► This log covers March 10th-16th.
► Feel free to make your own logs as well!
► All characters arrive with phones that have network communication and the newbie guide installed.
► Please put your character's name and open/closed in the subject line of your starters!

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The question makes him look up, and Ivar notices the crown surreptitiously hiding around Kelson's arm almost first out of everything else about him, because he's always had the delightful ability to zero in on the things that will annoy people the most. Whether that's a skill special to him or an ability developed by all youngest brothers when they've got four siblings to make miserable and need to be economical about how they use their time to do that, well. Maybe that's something only the gods could know.

"That's an interesting trinket," he calls from where he's seated outside one of the shops, twirling a throwing knife around his fingers, his legs tipped off to the side in a strange way that makes it clear they weren't actually used to help him get into the seat in the first place. His crutch leans against the bench next to him. He points to indicate the crown with the blade of his knife, but he holds it loosely so it doesn't look like too much of a threat. "Is that how they wear crowns where you're from?"

Kelson only knew of the hazards of younger siblings by virtue of his cousins, all were younger than him, including Conall, the one he had beheaded-- there went that stray thought and bout of self pity again. He looked at the crown he held along his arm and at the man who had seen it. He probably should have made a decision and worn it or tucked it away someplace safe, figured out whether or not he wanted people to know who or what he was, but it was too late now. Clearly carrying it around wasn't exactly low profile either. And here, outside of court, he was sure Ivar wasn't going to fall for the 'I'm just keeping it safe for the king' excuse.

So, he let himself smile, being caught at doing the one thing that reminded him a bit of home. "It's certainly how this king likes to. Walking around with a crown tends to invite attention. It's also rather heavy."

Kelson walked over the few steps toward Ivar, because clearly Ivar wasn't going to be the one doing the walking. "Are you rather vexed with me for not telling you?"

"Hm, maybe," he doesn't sound very vexed. More lazy and lilting, as is so often the case. His dangerous edges concealed, if only just barely. "Maybe I'm more vexed at myself that I did not notice." He reaches up to touch his hair as though feeling to make sure that something's not there, a pointed mimicry of what Kelson had done the last time they spoke. It was such a small gesture, but Ivar always notices the small gestures, and while he'd guessed at some things about the Christian man he hadn't guessed that.

Not that it matters too much, he tells himself. Like little King Alfred (like himself), it's generally all the men that they lead that make kings a terrible threat, and it really doesn't seem as though any of the three them have such luxuries here.

Well, Ivar has Hvitserk, the brother that he's broken enough to be loyal to him (for now.) That's something, isn't it? His smile is awfully smug, and he flips the knife he'd been twirling around back towards himself so he can slide it into one of the straps at the front of his leather armor, letting it rejoin the others he's carrying around. Maybe a bit odd for the man who is sitting around right now because he can't stand on his own to have so many weapons on his person, but that's Ivar for you.

He also has never gone anywhere in his life without inviting attention. Sometimes he hates it—or, he used to. Now he courts it, gleefully, viciously. But whether he's crawling with his face in the dirt or thundering around taller than anyone else in the chariot Floki built to be his legs, his wings, he can't imagine a little circle of metal would change much for him. He wonders briefly, just as young and self-pitying as Kelson as it turns out, what it must be like to take off a crown and have the ability to blend in.

But he's done looking to be normal, and so he spreads his hands out wide, making a show of being comfortable even with a relative stranger looming over him. There's space on the bench, if Kelson wants, but Ivar is too prideful to risk the rejection of inviting the king over himself. "So what land are you King of, Kelson? Huh? That they have given you such a heavy crown."

Kelson was well aware of the danger Ivar most likely carried with him, the man looked well antiquated with his armor, flipping the knife like it was a toy. This man was practiced, much like some of the warriors he went up against in Meara, there was a familiar barbarism to it all. He wasn't entirely sure though how much of a threat Ivar could be with those legs, and felt comfortable enough in his own abilities, hidden weapons and his own legs to feel assured that he could get away if he needed too. And it was simply rude to stand over someone like that, unless one had a good reason. Which Kelson didn't. So, he sat down.

Smiling softly at Ivar, the familiar jest bringing a smile to his face, he flips the crown around and off his arm and back on his head.

"King of Gwynedd, Prince of Meara, Duke of Haldane, Lord of the Purple March...and until I can sort things out, Overlord of Torenth and Guardian of Gwernach. "Yes,Ivar, he intended to give Torenth and Gwernach back to their king. Eventually. Once they stopped trying to kill him. He knew what some would say. You're giving territory back? Have you lost your senses?

"I don't suppose you have a crown you're hiding, Ivar the Boneless?" He still thought that was a poor name. "And I apologize for not telling you. It's not often I get to go somewhere that I am not recognized. Where are you from? Are your crowns not equally heavy?" He almost wished he had changed from his traditional court garb today, so he could have been clad in leathers and a simple circlet, the gold reflecting the simple brutality and uncivilized anger of the mountain leathers. The two of them might have matched more. As it was, Kelson was the picture of civility, at least in his mind, silk crimson tunic with Haldane crests, sheathed broadsword and coronet, breaches and riding boots. At least he had taken to braiding his hair, although he doubted that was a symbol of borderlands of the north where Ivar came from. Or maybe it was.

"Tell me something about yourself Ivar, now that my secret is out."

Edited 2018-03-11 16:37 (UTC)

Ivar's father had given his first son the name Bjorn Ironsides after seeing him come out of a terrible battle unscathed, and his last Boneless when his mother had defied him and saved her newborn babe from death by abandonment in the woods. Certainly, Ivar had spent a long time resenting how his father treated his sons differently, but for all that had he not seen Ragnar change his mind at the end? Just in time, as it were, for him to orchestrate his own death. There's no point in being bitter anymore.

(Ivar is still bitter, of course: he's always bitter, but he tells himself that he's not. He'd made men fear the words Ivar the Boneless, so it could not be such a bad name after all.)

"I am no a king," he laughs, and thinks yet. Thinks, I will be soon. Thinks, and then I will burn down the whole world. The familiar comfort and casual cruelty of the thoughts help him forget the squeezing strangeness of being smiled at like Kelson is smiling at him now: lets his gaze wander so he doesn't have to look at it. "Certainly not of so many places. So, I wouldn't know." But he does know, he knows crowns must be burdensome indeed: how many years had Ragnar Lothbrok spent fleeing from his own? How broken a man had he turned into in its shadow, so pathetic and unloved in the end? And his beautiful mother, who spent half of his childhood drunk and the other half miserable and confiding only in him (and in Harbard, as his dear brother Sigurd never let anyone forget), sitting the throne in his father's place. Ivar is stronger, though, than both of them. Or perhaps simply too insane to feel the weight of responsibilities. (Probably that.) "Ask a question, King Kelson, and maybe I will." His eyes flit back over finally, with a crooked smile. And he might answer truthfully, actually, since he's feeling rather generous this afternoon: he's still alone, out of place and in a confusing world, but he learned something new and he does always enjoy doing that.

"Then what are you, Ivar?" Kelson decided not to repeat the name, which he found in poor taste. He wondered how he acquired the name, if he gave it to himself or someone else thought of it for him. Either way, Kelson found it cruel. No one had dared given King Javan a nickname like that, with his clubbed foot. Or maybe he had. Javan had been king over two hundred years ago. It wasn't like Kelson had been around, nor had he delved into the details of the past kings of Gywnedd. Javan had only been king a year, and wasn't a direct descendant.

Kelson looked at Ivar, thinking, of all the things he wanted to know about this man, what did he want to know the most? "What do you want, Ivar? What kind of a man are you? Is it your Gods that you live for? Or does something else drive you?"

Perhaps it was too personal a question to ask so soon. He knew if Ivar had asked him that, he might have had a hard time answering. But Kelson also didn't know a better way to get to know a person, besides viewing their actions. Or reading their mind. Watching what Ivar did would tell him who he was, but that would take time. And reading his mind for a mere curiosity was just impolite.

"Do you wish your mother had passed on her gift to you?" He asks, giving Ivar an out and also asking a question he had wondered. His relationship with his mother would be very different if she hadn't passed on hers to him. Kelson could only wish one day they might have a relationship that wasn't antagonistic.

All of that startles a laugh out of Ivar, who looks torn between amusement and consideration. He appreciates cutting right to the heart of a matter, certainly, in any situation. And maybe also that Kelson just goes for it, in this one. It's been awhile since Ivar met anyone with enough spirit to keep him engaged (he does, after all, have a nasty habit of breaking spirits just for the fun of it.)

"Me? I am a viking." The casual way he shrugs tells a lot about how much he thinks that simple word should mean. Never mind that clearly they are too far removed from one another for all that, as he's never in his life heard of Gwynedd or Meara or Haldane... certainly not the Purple March. Still, he pushes on.

What do you really want, Ivar? That seems to him a popular question of late. Most people ask it when they find him incomprehensible, or frustrating, or whatever else. But Kelson, he thinks, is just curious. He tilts his head back, looking to the sky with its two queer suns, and offers at least as much of the truth as he'd given his own brother. "I want to be the most famous man who ever lived." To a viking, fame is the most important thing there is. Glory is the currency of the divine. Gold too, of course, but being a legend will always be worth more to the gods and to men like him than any metal, no matter how fine. "I want to be remembered. Forever."

For his deeds, bloody as they may be, and not for being a cripple. But that feels a little too real to say, so he pushes on from that too. Considers, again. "No. Maybe." In truth, sometimes he feels like he's the only one who sees anything around him. It's always been plain as day, to him, what people will do on the battlefield and off: maybe it's madness, or maybe it's genius, or maybe his mother had given him some of her gift after all. "We are what we are, huh? We cannot change our fates. So I don't wish." His eyebrows quirk, ruefully, like he knows how bald the lie sounds and just isn't going to acknowledge it. "Why? Do you not fear power, like your church does?" He recalls their last conversation: why else would they strip their own saint of a title for having magic? Surely, if anything, that should make him a better weapon for them? It's baffling, to Ivar.

It occurred to Kelson that he could that he could have truth read what Ivar was telling him, but he had no reason to suspect he was lying--and truth reading was a very poor way to start a friendship. It wasn't often Kelson had the opportunity to meet someone, without knowing more about them in advance. Ivar wasn't a foreign dignitary, or one of his vassals, or even a member of the church.

But there was something about his words, what Ivar wanted, that was a little off. Diplomatically, he says "I think everyone wants to be remembered. Some little proof that they existed and left their mark." Kelson didn't have that. He knew he'd be remembered, his body, like his ancestors, would lie in the royal crypt. He'd already started to make sweeping changes to Gwynedd that would go down in history. But what did Ivar have? He wasn't royal, Kelson didn't even know if he had a liege lord where he came from.

Despite it not being the best way to start a friendship, Kelson does end up truth reading him, not quite liking some of his answers. Besides, he couldn't imagine what Ivar had been through, with whatever plagued his legs, but he couldn't imagine anyone not wishing for things to be better. He'd wished for his father to still be alive or the church to change their stance. But things did not happen on wishes alone.

"No, I do not fear power. All of our gifts come from God, I do not believe we would have received them if it wasn't His wish. Power isn't good or evil, it's how how it's used, like anything else. The ability to summon fire or read a man's mind is no different than being able to shoe a horse or use a lance. It's just ability. Any of those can be used for the wrong reasons, but that doesn't make the ability bad." That was something his own mother was still learning.

"Now. Why did you lie to me just now?"

Edited 2018-03-15 18:45 (UTC)

"Good and evil," Ivar scoffs. "What are these, anyway? What do they matter? You Christians have some strange ideas." He'd asked the question of Bishop Heahmund, once, but the answer he'd received had been unsatisfactory. For a man with so much blood on his hands to balk at the idea of blood on the hands was more outrageously humorous than actually insightful. And the offer to convert him afterwards, well. Ivar could have laughed at him for days, for that.

Why should he have been the one to convert, anyway? It was always Heahmund who was half a viking already, in battle at least, even if he didn't seem to know it. So, what of this one? Who looks soft, who speaks soft words... but even after only two conversations, Ivar can tell there's more to him than that. How much blood does Kelson have on his hands, he wonders? Some, surely. No King gets where he is without a little bit of conquering: not even one so young.

But, caught out on his lie(s?), Ivar doesn't even have the time to be properly impressed over the ideas of fire summoning, or mind-reading. He visibly pauses, mouth opening only to close again without any words coming out. Interesting, again. It's probably not healthy for any person to work himself up to be this interesting to Ivar the Boneless, for their own sake. Eventually: "What makes you say that, huh?" It's no denial that he did lie, there's certainly no shame in him or apology for it, now he just wants to know.

What a question. What was 'good' and 'evil'. Kelson, not for the first time today, wished Father Duncan were here to answer it for him. He had no doubt the Deryni Bishop would have some wise, thoughtful answer and Kelson would have to stumble through it. He tried to think about what Duncan would say. "I'm sure some would think that good and evil have to do with adherence to scriptures or God's will and word but....I don't think it's that simple. It has to do with one's actions and belief. Is doing a 'wrong' thing for the right reasons still wrong? I don't think the world and our actions can be categorized that simply. It all depends on who is viewing it. What I find righteous may be in direct conflict with your own. I guess it ultimately depends who we answer to."

Kelson hoped Duncan would appreciate that statement and that he hadn't gotten it wrong somewhere along the line. He was always so wise and thoughtful, and made questions like that seem so easy. Did that come naturally when one became a priest or was it just that Duncan had much more practice at it than he did?

"In my kingdom, I get to decide what is right and what is wrong. If one's actions are redeemable despite their consequences. As for what good and evil is truly, I think I am definitely not qualified to answer that question. The faithful have been trying to answer that since time immemorial."

Kelson had a lot of blood on his hands. Perhaps not as much as Ivar had, but he had to learn early on that being a king is a bloody business, and there are many who would try and take advantage of a young king's youth and inexperience.

But, Ivar's lies. If Kelson knew how intriguing he was making himself to the other man, he might not have brought it up. But back home, truth reading was such a common place Deryni skill he didn't think anything of it.

"Because I'm Truth-Reading you Ivar."

Edited 2018-03-19 18:29 (UTC)

It's a more thorough answer, certainly. But Ivar doesn't know about more illuminating.

It reveals some interesting things about Kelson himself, though. He speaks with none of those black and white lines drawn in the sand that the Bishop had. Perhaps his faith is more flexible, or perhaps he has less of it, Ivar doesn't quite know. "Then what would you call good, huh? What would you call evil? King Kelson." Ivar finds himself impossibly curious. He leans closer, on their shared bench, like they're sharing some little secret. Ivar's eyes are brighter than they should be, probably, more excited. "What do you do to the men who fall short in your eyes?" Since he calls himself unqualified but is the one who decides, anyway.

That last part makes him lean back away again, though he looks no less lively about it. He laughs, surprised and light and high. "Oh, are you!" Another thing he hadn't said about himself before, no, he'd talked around it. Mentioned others instead. "Your god has given you a gift too, then, has he?"

Yes, he had talked around it. Kelson had gotten used to doing that over the years, and his family had spent centuries convincing the populace that the abilities inherent in every Haldane king was gifted by God as divine right, not Deryni blood. That was a very fine line Kelson had to walk after it became known his mother was Deryni.

"Every Haldane king has abilities gifted by God, yes." And Kelson was going to toe that line until Ivar saw him summon fire or something. "Did you want to tell me why you were lying?"

As for the black and white lines Ivar speaks off, Kelson is well aware of the type like his Bishop. He's not that fond of them. Kelson's mother was one of those types too. It made for wonderful family meetings.

Kelson's eyes clouded over even as Ivar got more and more excited. He liked Ivar, and saw no reason why he should hide his short comings from him. It wasn't as if they were a secret in any case. "I execute them. What do I consider evil?" He stopped, pondering, which of unfortunate examples he had to choose from to reveal. Loris and his toadying little priest Gorony would always be his prime example. But there were others. The convent with the nuns, villages ransacked, Bishop Istelyn's head marched into Christmas Court.

"Evil is having such hatred in your heart that you condemn an entire race of people as evil and heretical, because they have magic. Evil is torturing and killing innocent people and believing your actions to be the will of God."

Killing and making those hard decisions was an unfortunate of being king. Kelson had just never quite realized how hard those decisions were until he became king himself.

"I came across a convent once, I was leading my army into Meara to put down a rebellion. The Mearan Pretenders oldest son and his men raped the nuns, some of the nuns and monks were killed. And then they desecrated the convent and relieved themselves on the altar."

Kelson meanwhile looked like he was going to be sick. At the time, he hadn't realized what happened to them. What Kelson was not going to share was that one of the nuns made him relive one of the rapes, when he asked to mind-read one to find out who was responsible. For a seventeen year old virgin, it was traumatic.

"I hung the two leaders of the band immediately after sentencing and four of their men. The rest were flogged and left to the mercy of the townsfolk which they brutalized. Unless they swore fealty to me while I truth-read them. None did." Kelson shook his head. "I should have at least granted them five minutes with a priest." But he had been young, and he had been very, very angry. "Old Testament justice I called it." If Kelson hadn't been so much in his own head and self pity, he might have realized how excited Ivar was by the idea.

"That is what I call evil. But I wouldn't call myself perfect either." If he had been perfect, he wouldn't have let his anger get to him. But, inexperience is unfortunately a side effect of youth.

Which lie is he being called out on, he wonders? He'll have to be more careful. Or maybe not, maybe he'll have to push until he can find the limits of Kelson's Truth-Reading. Never one to tip his hand unless he has to, he sighs: a touch dramatic. Very fake. "The truth is uncomfortable sometimes, huh? After all, it's not as though you've been so forthcoming."

He reaches over, and jostles the crown on Kelson's arm with the tip of a finger, bold. But smiles again, anyway.

Because, my. Doesn't that sound exactly like a viking raid on some churches? Aren't those all things that he's done? Well, not the rape. Because he's impotent. And not the pissing on the alters specifically (though certainly he'd had his men let their animals have run of the place, and one of the horses might have done it), but everything else... well.

He works very hard not to laugh out loud, and until his sides burst. "Hanging?" He doesn't sound disappointed, but it's a near thing for him. Listen, hanging is all well and good, but it's not the terrible answer he'd been hoping for. "You know, where I am from, they crucify." Oh does he want to watch one of those. He wants to perform one of those. For all their bleating about mercy, Christians do find ways to be delightfully cruel.

It's no Blood Eagle of course, but they are just Christians, after all.

"What is that? Old Testament." It sounds like something he'd be very interested in.

Kelson rolls his eyes, a sign of his age despite everything he's experienced in the last few years. He eyes Ivar, letting him reach over and touch the crown. "Omission is not lying. Lying is a purposeful deception. I never said I wasn't king." Ivar's reluctant to admit made Kelson wonder. What was it that he was protecting? Or was it something more? Was it just a dislike of being found out? But Ivar was not one of his subjects, and he did not have to answer his questions. But Kelson did not like being lied too. He just wished he knew why Ivar was dancing. It almost reminded him of Morgan in his 'dark prince' days, when he dressed in black with his devil may care attitude. Until someone suggested he stop dressing like the Adversary and maybe people would stop being terrified of him.

One thing he did not expect was the laughter. And the idea of crucifying someone was horrific, although really no less horrific than drawing and quartering, even if crucifixion did take longer. "You crucify....everyone?" He winced thinking about it.

"Yes. I hung them, one was a prince. But they behaved like common criminals so I executed them like one." In a few years he'd find out his neighbors to the east impaled those convinced of high treason and left them there, hoping they'd 'dance' on the spikes. Kelson nearly threw up.

"It's part of the bible, although I don't exactly have a copy to show you."

Edited (words) 2018-03-26 00:28 (UTC)

"If you say so," Ivar says, unconvinced. Maybe it's only because he's always been good at reading people, at seeing through the lies given directly to his face, that he has come to look at lies of omission as more insidious. Or at least, more unfair to him, which is what really matters in the end. Obviously.

He shakes his head, eyebrows raised. "No, the Christians crucify. We Northmen prefer other ways. Combat sometimes: or decapitation. Or the blood eagle, but that one is special." He shrugs, lackadaisical. Certainly, he's not about to vomit, even remembering fondly some of the more creative methods of execution that he's employed over the last year in England. But there's no need to regale Kelson with those tales while he's looking so green.

"Ah, do you not have it memorized?" He supposes that it's not a king's job to do such things, as it had been the job of his Bishop. Another flaw with the Christians and their insistence on writing everything down instead of turning their gods' and heroes' stories into beautiful and brutal poetry through bards.

Kelson didn't see it that way. Maybe because the line of Haldanes had become very good at blurring the line between their use of magic and Deryni abilities. Maybe it was just the culture he was raised in, where Deryni had to hide who they were and walk a careful line. Good naturedly, he said, "I'm the king, I say so." Then again, maybe it was insidious. While Kelson wouldn't dream dwelve into the darker arts of his own magic, he skirted the edge of the gray without realizing what he's doing, having learned from those around him.

"Blood eagle?" Kelson was positive he wasn't going to like it, but if he was to understand the culture and place Ivar came from, it was a necessity. Still, he grimaced. Christians crucifying seemed....wrong to him.

"Passages, a lifetime of masses. A priest however, I am not. If you want a recitation of the bible, you'd better hope Father Duncan comes through that portal. "If you want a recitation of the laws of Gwynedd, that I can do, however." Kelson smiled.

"Ah, of course," Ivar makes the exaggerated gesture of a proper bow with his hands and tipping his head vaguely downward, but when he comes back up the corners of his eyes are crinkled with an amused grin. "Your Majesty." A term he learned from the Christians, that.

He leans back against the bench, considering giving the King a kind lie, but considering his earlier consternation... no, if he wanted to know, certainly Ivar wouldn't hold himself back. "A man is sliced open from the top of his back to the bottom of it, and once the skin is peeled away, his ribs are cut from his spine with an axe and spread out like the wings of an eagle. His lungs are drawn over his shoulders, so he might watch himself take his last breath." Some don't last that long. He remembers how fascinating it had been to watch King Aelle scream and wail and cry until he no longer had the strength, and then see the very light of life itself go out from his eyes. Ivar had never before watched anything so arresting, so beautiful. "It is a lot of effort, huh. Saved for the worst offenses."

Crucifixion though, he thinks, might be almost as lovely to see.

But alas. Another time, perhaps: he still has so much to do in England, after he wrests Kattegat back from the foul usurper Lagertha, who had murdered his mother and stolen it for herself.

"Your father?" Wait. "No... that's what you call your priests, isn't it?" So odd, that. As for sitting still and listening to every single law of a land he's never been to... sounds riveting. He looks on the verge of a chuckle. "Another time, perhaps."

Kelson had to smile at the familiar term. It was the first time he'd heard it here, and well, he missed it. It was like having something you'd grown up with, like a familiar dish, only to have it removed. It was nice to have it back, even if it was in amusement.

But the smile died as he listened to the torture Ivan described. That seemed like it took an awful lot of work, yes, although, so did drawing and quartering someone. As much as he might judge, he knew it was only a matter of opinion.

"That's....imaginative." That was the only adjective Kelson could come up with that was diplomatic. "We typically draw and quarter or behead those who have committed grave offenses against the Crown." He preferred hanging. It brought them down to the level of common criminals and didn't give them the 'honor' of of a beheading. Drawing and quartering? Honestly, it just took a while and Kelson did not have the stomach nor the time to waste.

"And yes, that's what we call our priests. What do you call yours? Or do you not have them?"

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Intro Log: Mimicry

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CW: death, rape, religious desecration

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