hadriel_logs | Event Log: Memories Past

Event Log: Memories Past

Who: Everyone
What: Memory Share Event!
Where: All around the city
When: November 14th-20th
Warnings: Please remember to tag all warnings for memory shares!

Have you ever looked through someone else's eyes? Heard through their ears, spoken with their tongue? The gods have tried to teach some of you empathy, but it's time you learned the hard way, exactly what the others here have been through. For a week, every time you brush skin to skin with someone, you'll experience a memory of theirs: happy, sad, it doesn't matter. All that matters is that it feels real to you.

The first touch may come as a surprise- it lasts only for a split second but may feel like an eternity, where you're trapped in someone else's memory. After that, it could be more expected, and some may even figure out how to control it and share specific scenes from their past with others. Or, you might wear gloves and long sleeve shirts for awhile, nobody's judging.

Maybe curtail the handholding for awhile- or go right ahead, if that's your thing. After all, you never really know somebody unless you've walked a mile in their shoes, right?

► This log covers November 14th-20th.
► Feel free to make your own logs as well
► Please tag headers of threads with content warnings where they apply
► Please put your character's name and open/closed in the subject line of your starters!
► If you die in a memory, you don't die in real life, but if you do die in real life please let us know here.

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Semiyon has only a small number of places that he frequents. A favorite spot at the speakeasy. The Ice Cubed Caedra (after all he has to check if his fellow conversationalist has thawed ye). His home. And the spaces needed to travel between those three. Maybe his shoulder bumped yours as he leaned in to get his drink or you crossed paths a little too closely as he was making his way home. Or, in the case of Newton, his oh so fortunate housemate, you may have gotten an impromptu but not-out-of-character hug from a lightly buzzed old mobster whilst you were in the midst of trying to do whatever it was you were trying to do.

He'd had too much to drink. He'd gone to bed too late. It wasn't drunkenness, no. But it was all his senses dulled and his normally hair trigger awareness of his surroundings muffled by exhaustion, alcohol, and the buzzing traces of too much thumping base music.

As such, Semiyon doesn't wake immediately when his shoulder is shaken. It takes the poor, frightened housekeeper several firm shoves of his arm before he lifts his head from the pillow, hair mussed and brows knitted somewhere between confusion and annoyance, and blinks at her blearily as though to silently ask "What?"

"The police are here, Mr. Kleiman."

No more than a handful of words and its like ice being thrown in his face. He's very much awake now and he moves in quick but cautious movements to pull on his robe, eyes on alert as though they were going to sneak up behind him and simply whisk him away at any moment.

They do not.

But nor do they go away. And a hushed exchange between the young housekeeper and one of the policemen makes it clear to him he will not be getting any more time than they've already given. Either he steps forward, or they will come in.

The latter is out of the question. He's known this day could come...or rather that it would come if somehow he managed to avoid the bullet and the knife long enough. And he's also steeled himself to the idea that if it is to happen, it will not be some humiliating scramble. No hiding in a backroom. No mad dash for the back gate. The papers would not write that Semiyon Kleiman had tried, and worse...failed, to flee.

He comes to the end of the corridor in a matter of a few deliberate steps, tentative fingers briefly steadying himself against the stucco wall before he comes face to face with two young men, uniforms in impeccable order, expressions set.

"Semiyon Kleiman, you are under arrest."

[she's never seen this man before. he's never made an effort to reach out, but seeing him in seemingly a fugue state, she couldn't help but reach out to him. it's what heroes do, isn't it?

and she's treated to his name and his arrest warrant. she's not sure what to think. her time in Hadriel has made her rethink her black and white, right and wrong vision of how things were meant to be, but what on Earth is he being arrested for and why is he taking it so calmly. she stands back for a moment, hoping that it all makes sense in the coming moments]

[Semiyon had been sat at his usual place in the Speakeasy, the table with two chairs, the other usually occupied by Caedra when she was in less of an ice cube state. The contact with this young stranger had been so sudden he hardly had time to process it before turning to blink up at her, somewhat uncertain.

He can tell from the look on her face that she witnessed something, and immediately he feels uneasy, like someone just stepped on territory that he fiercely guarded and now he's unsure what step to take next.]

...can I help you?

[His words are calm and deliberate, but defensive.]

The pool at his home in Tel Aviv is possibly Semiyon's favorite place. Smooth flagstone jutting out over the sea, looking out at an unbroken horizon. Creams and blues that catch the western sunlight, a world of difference from Moscow.

On this morning the sun has already had time to warm the stone when he pads out, bundled in a robe and carrying an armful of towels. He's only just set the towels down on one of the pool chairs when a much younger man steps out of the house behind him. Semiyon greets him with a smile he saves only for this one person. Not guarded. Not measured. Wholly sincere as he reaches up his hands to cup the man's face.

"Ezra," he whispers before they meet in a kiss.

When the kiss breaks, Ezra is smiling mischievously. "I have something for you." And from the backpack casually slung over his shoulder he produces an envelope, holding it out to Semiyon eagerly.

Semiyon cocks his head in question, taking the envelope. "What?" His fingers work delicately to open the envelope as Ezra comes around to stand behind him, his front pressed against Semiyon's back. He sneaks a kiss to Semiyon's shoulder.

From the envelope Semiyon produces a beautiful photograph of a gray desert fox bending to drink from a small spring. "It reminded me of you," Ezra smiles.

"The fox?" Semiyon arches a playful and questioning brow. He's not exactly sure if he should be complimented or something else entirely.

"Do you like it?"

Semiyon relents and beams, turning his attention back to the photograph. "I love it."

[It's late, so late that it's almost circled back into early, and Newt is in the spare bedroom. He's sitting on the edge of the bed, bathed in the soft blue glow of the echo flowers. Most of them are silent, but the one on the end is singing, playing back a voice it heard some weeks ago, a woman's clipped British accent. The voice is faded though, muffled through static as the flower forgets what she sounds like. There's a cadence like she's telling a story or reading something aloud, perhaps, but the words have long since been lost.

After a moment, the flower sags and quiets, so he reaches to brush his fingers against one of its draping petals. It perks at his touch and the voice starts up again.

Newt doesn't hear Semiyon enter over the static, and he starts at the sudden hand on his shoulder, whipping his head around even though he knows who it is, and skin brushes skin, and there's a memory, or a heavy handful of memories. A lot of what Semiyon gets is emotions, vague knowledge of why things are how they are, smattered with snippets of images from time to time. It's like Drifting, not that he would know what that felt like.

The memory Newt gets, on the other hand, is straightforward. So that's where the picture came from. He blinks, his tired brain struggling to process what's just happened even though he's done something like this before, twice, over a year ago now, and he pulls out of Semiyon's grip.]

Jeez, dude, you need to be careful with the event going on.

[His voice is a whisper to keep the flower from overhearing.]

[In Semiyon's experience Newt's very existence is explosive. He's like pure frenetic energy that has somehow taken physical shape. His voice is shrill, his movements sharp and flighty, his appearance haphazard as though he's been in a whirlwind for the entirety of his life.

With time he's found the walking chaos that is Newton Geiszler endearing in its own way. Even something he misses when its not there.

Normally he'd laugh, particularly if lightly tipsy as he is right now. He'd chuckle softly at Newt's sharp reactions to everything. To being hugged, to being surprised. He'd chuckle softly and go on his way, back to his room or to find one of his wine bottles in the kitchen. But this time he doesn't.

The memory is like a shot of ice water to the veins unraveling the fuzzy warmth of the alcohol from earlier. It goes down his spine. Into the nerves of his neck in a way that makes him straighten uncomfortably.

And in a way very unlike Semiyon, he just murmurs an apology, feeling weirdly like he's been stripped of some defense he had had and like he's naked even though he's fully clothed. And even though that hadn't even been his vulnerability that had been pumped straight into his nervous system.]

I'll...[He gestures weakly towards the door before shuffling in that direction] ....I'll be in the kitchen...

[Why is he telling him this? He doesn't know. Newt doesn't need to know that he's going to the kitchen. And as he makes his way out of the room with a slow but determined pace, he reaches a hand up to rub at the back of his head in hopes that it will somehow bring back his sense of normalcy. His sense of himself]

[...Hm.

Newt's relationship with Semiyon is not all that different from his relationship with Hermann, if one were to excise eight years of pent-up hurt over one instance of unmet expectations. Newt keeps Semiyon at arm's length, but really, he's probably Newt's closest friend in Hadriel. They know each other after all these months of living together, as much as Newt would deny that he's made a personal connection with the guy. Roommates is roommates and sex is sex, that's it. A friendship with emotional vulnerability is another thing entirely.

That said, Semiyon's muttering and subsequent quick exit are unlike him, and Newt notices this immediately. Semiyon has never been the type to shrink when Newt snaps at him, especially not over something that was hardly an actual affront in the first place. He's always been able to see straight through Newt when he's been bratty for the sake of being bratty.

So, what did he see?

Newt wait for Semiyon to clear the room before he stands to follow.]

Hey, uh...

[The words are out of his mouth before he's made it to the kitchen, but even as he starts, he's not sure what his actual question is. He jerks a thumb toward the spare room.]

What was that?

"I'd like to show you something before you leave. Vadim is planning to smuggle a ton of heroin through Mumbai. But if something were to go wrong--"

The airport lighting has an odd yellow hue and Semiyon sits silently as he listens to a slick young man in a gray suit speak. The expression on his face is enough to betray the fact that Semiyon is not impressed with what he is being told.

"--it would embarrass Vadim in the eyes of his backers in Moscow." There it is. Alex Godman is beginning to get ideas of his own and now he's getting ahead of himself.

And Alex can sense Semiyon's reluctance, trying again. "This man, Antonio, said it was a gesture of goodwill.
He doesn't want anything in return.

"Not yet," Semiyon finally interjects in a soft but firm tone. "Why didn't you come to me first?"

"Those were his conditions."

That alone puts even more of a bad taste in Semiyon's mouth. None of this bodes well. Alex Godman may be the son of Dimitri Godman but he is sheltered and his understanding of how this world...how Semiyon's world works is privileged but severely limited.

"Alex." Semiyon cants his head to the side, placing himself within whispering distance of Alex's ear. "Do you have any idea what kind of people you are dealing with? They dress like bankers, they speak a dozen languages, they eat in the best restaurants, stay in the best hotels but underneath all that sophistication, there is an open grave in the Mexican desert with 50 headless corpses inside."

The twist of frustration and disappointment in Alex's expression is unmissable.

"I'll tell you what he wants.Not now, but sooner or later, he wants to take over my shipping fleet so he can move his cocaine into Europe." Semiyon finds it somewhat bewildering he even has to spell this out for Alex, such things having become second nature to him.

"But wouldn't that mean he'd have to compete with Vadim? Isn't that what we want?" Alex's voice has taken on an almost childish urgency and it only succeeds in further solidifying his inexperience in Semiyon's mind.

"Be careful, my friend," Semiyon urges, his voice always soft, always even in tone. Calm, collected. "That's how they corrupt you. They let you think that you're making all the decisions, but in the end, they get what they want."

Alex leans back slightly,"With respect, isn't that what you're doing?

Semiyon's eyes look him over for a long silent moment. Taking a sum of his parts. His family name. His youth. His ambition. Then after a minute his mouth quirks in the hint of something of a cold smile. "The difference being: I won't bury you if you let me down."

[Mariane Cousland has dealt with criminals before. from the outskirts of Lothering to the back alleys of Denerim, she's clashed with those who wished to break the law before.

she can't say that she's ever encountered a criminal who seemed to care about his fellow criminals. all those she's met have seemed happy to throw one another to the wolves without regard for how they'd fare. usually, they died upon her blade or the blades of her companions.

this. . . seeming concern takes her aback and makes her stand silent in the memory until she is acknowledged by the one who remembers]

[After they had bumped into each other in passing, Semiyon, having now had a bit too much experience in exchanging memories, reached out and caught her forearm in a gentle grip, enough to keep her in place but not enough to come off as aggressive or threatening.

He just....needs to be sure of something]

....If you would excuse my rudeness....I need to ask if you saw anything.

[but at his grip, he falls into a memory of her own.

it's of a grand hall in the underground dwarven city of Orzammar. the speaker of the assembly calls for order, but one of the dwarves, a redhaired man in armor with a muscular build speaks. "Why these delaying tactics? I call for a vote right now. My father has one surviving son to assume the Aeducan throne. Who would deny him that?"

another dwarf, this one older with grey hair and a grey beard speaks turns to the dwarf who had just spoken. "Your father made me swear on his deathbed you would not succeed him."

an announcer proceeds Mariane into the hall, saying "Pardon for the interruption, but the Grey Warden has returned."

the first dwarf, Bhelen Aeducan, the man Mariane had chosen to support in this succession crisis due to his decisive nature, his plans for change in Orzammar, and his willingness to contribute troops to the cause of ending the Blight, turns to her and says "Well, Warden? What news do you bring?"

Mariane steps forward and says "I have a crown from Paragon Caridin for his chosen king."

the dwarf at Mariane's side, Ohgren, speaks. "Caridin had been trapped in the body of a golem. The Warden granted him the mercy he sought, releasing him and destroying the Anvil of the Void. Before he died, Caridin forged a crown for Orzammar's next king, chosen by the ancestors themselves."

The grey-haired dwarf says "I would like to believe the Warden, but it is well known that she is Bhelen's hireling." At that, Mariane bristles. She is no man's and no dwarf's hireling. She made her choice after speaking to both candidates for king and believes that Bhelen is what's best for Orzammar.

The speaker examines the crown. "The crown is of Paragon make and bears House Ortan's ancient seal. Tell us, Warden, who did Caridin choose?"

"He willed that I gave the crown to whomever I choose."

The grey-haired dwarf, Harrowmont, sputters "This is preposterous! What does an outsider know of Orzammar's traditions?"

The speaker interjects, "Caridin chose the Warden. We must trust in her wisdom."

Mariane doesn't feel particularly wise, but one thing she does know is politics. And so she speaks, "I choose Bhelen."

Bhelen's expression is triumphant. "At last this farce is ended and I can take my rightful place on my father's throne!"

he walks proudly towards the speaker, then kneels to be crowned king as the assembled dwarven lords form a circle around Bhelen as the crown is placed on his head. "May the Memories find you worthy, first of the lords of houses, the king of Orzammar."

Bhelen rises to his feet, wearing his crown proudly. He turns to Harrowmont. "Do you acknowledge me as king?"

Harrowmont shakes his head. "I. . . cannot defy a Paragon. The throne is yours, King Bhelen." He goes down on one knee to signal his acceptance.

Bhelen calls out "Then as my first act as king, I call for this man's execution! Guards, seize him!"

the guards comply, taking Harrowmont's arms and bringing them behind his back.

Mariane frowns slightly, she knows better than most the necessity of being . . . harsh with one's enemies, but this seems a bit extreme. "Could he not retire to the surface? He'd be no threat to you there."

Bhelen scoffs at the notion. "You know better than anyone the war facing us, Warden. Orzammar cannot afford to be divided. Anyone undermining my rule is only serving the Darkspawn. I will return to my palace to gather my generals and prepare our forces for the surface. I will see you there, Warden. You have my gratitude for all you have done for me."

and with that, the memory fades]

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Event Log: Memories Past

Semiyon | OTA

Prompt 1: Semiyon's No Good Very Bad Morning

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Prompt 2: The Fox

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Prompt 3: Corpses

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