5302/Astral Flux: The Throne

Astral Flux: The Throne
Date of Scene:	05 September 2018
Location:	Unknown
Synopsis:	Emma seeks out the entity controlling the Astral Plane.
Cast of Characters:	Shadow King, Emma Frost
Tinyplot:	Astral Flux

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Shadow King has posed:
    Many would say the Astral Plane has been entirely inaccessible. For many people, that's true.

    And the power level required to do that? Those who are familiar with the requirement fear. And rightly so. It's not a small feat. But more importantly, why is it happening?

    Still, Emma Frost has not had that problem. She's able to astral walk without anyone stepping in and preventing her in any way. The landscape today is stormy, but also flecked with stars and bright glimmers in the astral realm. It is as if fireflies are alight in the essence of the place, despite the darkness of it. They are far more intense at the manifestation of the citadel Emma and Jean had seen before. The battlefield appears to be entirely gone, leaving only rolling valleys of darkness and shadows around the base of the strange castle shape.

Emma Frost has posed:
Emma Frost.

Not a soul could say the woman didn't have presence. Or confidence. Perhaps to the point of foolishness, however, that's hardly a thing to bring up at this point. She's already committed herself to this little endeavour. In fact, it's haunted her since she first stumbled upon the tortured.. thing.. upon the Astral Plane. Moreso since the brush of that *mind* when they fought the last of the spores.

One would think her trip here prior, where she stumbled upon Jean Grey using Cerebro, and discovered the lain to waste battlefield that Emma might have been taught some prudence to her actions. Instead, it only convinced her she must do this, and do it fast, before others knew, or worse, tried to stop her.

For better or for worse, Emma found herself connected to that tortured soul, and fascinated by the battlefield. The two things tugged upon her and demanded her presence.

So she came. A single, glowing white presence of thought upon a valley that rolled and heaved with darkness and shadows. The citadel before her, mocking her, knowing full well she'd enter.

The die had already been cast. All that remained was to see what number it rolled.

Shadow King has posed:
    The citadel doesn't resist. It doesn't do anything, in fact. There is no wind, no sense of movement, and the elaborately created steeples topped with huge violet flags hang dead. Sparks of that light flicker here and there, but they don't move the heaviness of that drape.

    Approaching the citadel itself is easier than it appears. A few steps can cover great distance. Because she is invited.

    The very place is making it easy for her. The interior is much as the outside, except that the furnishings are almost desperately opulent. The amount of gem-encrusted everything is outright excessive. And it is also the cause of all those sparkles outside: echoes of bits of thought, festering here quietly in a sense of deep greed and hunger.

    There is the tortured thing, it is here somewhere. It isn't hidden. In fact, it is clearly in the center, the throne room itself, where the seat of the mind that made this palace is located. It takes a certain type of mind to keep a tortured pet so close, instead of tucking it away in a dungeon: even if it is just a mental construct.

Emma Frost has posed:
She should be afraid. She would be afraid under any other circumstance, should she dare to admit it to herself, and being alone on this venture, there would be no harm to admit such. Still, there is nothing of fear within Emma as she approaches. Now that she is here, doing this thing, it is as if a weight has been lifted. As though her future has cracked open before her, needing only her acceptance of it.

Of course, that, too, is foolishness she'd have laughed at in anyone else, and a distinct measure of how far along the path of her own natterings and neurotic thoughts she has come. Like pilgrims of old, like the cavaliers, and those who struck down the heathens in crusades, Emma comes as a.. well, warrior isn't quite the word, but her faith in her actions carries her now.

The gems twinkle their warning thoughts at her, though she does not see this. Or, if she does, she ignores them as warnings to others. Surely not her? This is her task, is it not? To free the creature. To set it loose that the healing of this place might begin.

She strikes out, a pilgrim bent upon obesience; her thoughts carry her like prayers through the corridors, leading onward to where the thing is lain out. Her heart beating, beating, beating in tandem with it's pulsating cries for mercy, such as they are, the closer she gets to it.

Shadow King has posed:
    Upon entry, something very important becomes clear.

    The Citadel itself is alive. The construct, the whole of it, extends like a deep rooted cancer into the plane's essence. The castle at the top, the jutting spires, is just the display it has chosen to show. But the walls, all of it, is not just a mental construct created by this entity, but also the entity itself. It is all around. The fireflies? Thoughts. Pieces of it. Grand and expansive, it exists here as a behemoth and giant.

    Chains are lashed over the tortured thing on the floor of what is mostly a throne room. It is rich and lavish and thick with treasure and showy flair. This is no actual throne, only a raised area in the center towards the back. Stairs wind forever, breaking physics, swirling around that place. The tortured thing is at the bottom of the stairs and to the side, though the chains connect into the stairs themselves, and the floor, bolted into the citadel. Into the mentality of the thing that resides here.

Emma Frost has posed:
She shouldn't. Oh, she shouldn't. But she does.

Emma touches the walls, running a perfectly manicured finger along one. Placing first one palm, and then the other, feeling the place. Learning it. It's exactly the sort of opulence and ostentatiousness that she both admires and despises, having been to enough parties whose goal is merely to be seen. To be recognized. To drip with exactly the sort of oppulence that is here.

Only this? this is pure thought. And the magnitude and magnificence of it speaks to Emma in ways she never thought she'd be thrilled by another mind. Oh, certainly there were Charles and Jean, and a handful of others whose minds were brilliant. But they were bound by such mundanity. Such.. reverence for the mortal coils they wore.

This? This glorified the mind, and for the first time in longer than Emma could remember, a certain thrill ran through her of excitement, and something akin to attraction, were she to admit it, or recognize its thrill.

But there it is. The thing. That poor blighted thing left to whimper and decay so slowly that it was aware of the death of each and every one of its cells, unable to do a thing about it, only knowing that eventually all that would be left would be the mind of it, and then that, too, would be stripped away.

Emma pauses, not to rethink her actions, but to remind herself that she came with a task in mind. Focus renewed, she carries herself down the stairs.

Shadow King has posed:
    The stairs are the opposite of the ease at which Emma entered. They are confusing and backwards, deliberately insane. Hopelessly twisted, and they bend all the more when logic is forced at them. As if they decided no, instead of being walked on, they must be swam like a lake.

    "I am curious. You so strongly wished to visit; is tiring yourself looking at such a small thing really the best use of your time?" The citadel is calm, voice deep and regal, speaking into and against and inside, in the very 'air' of the place. Out of the curtains and drapes, manifesting as it remakes the reality of the plane, appears. It is manifesting this purely for her, she may recognize; as it is also the castle.

    The vision of it is an empty twisting being of silk: black and violet drapes that twist and move around it, roughly creating a humanoid form. It lacks personal space, and appears and glides up to her, a silken tendril extended to brush her arm and then towards her face, much as she caressed it's walls not long ago. "Emma."

Emma Frost has posed:
Emma admits confusion. The place seems like it should be easy to traverse. Even if she leaves logic behind. And yet every movement she takes upon the staircase seems to be the wrong one. Like a finger waggling at her and noting her a naughty child.

Or perhaps merely a poorly informed one.

The voice surrounds her, and at first she does not note that it /is/ the citadel that speaks to her, her thoughts still stuck in the logic of the very mundane she scoffs at.

And then it is brilliantly clear. The voice isn't a who. It isn't even merely the citadel. The voice is the all that is around her. The Astral. The voice.. merely /IS/.

Still, there is within her to appreciate that it gives itself form, if only for her. The being of silk and shadows giving her no more pause than how easily a mind can be crushed with a thought. Or how wet feet leave footprints upon pavement. Or even how the sun rises and falls in inexorable motion and pattern.

There isn't a morality to it. It merely is.

When the touch brushes upon her cheek, she does not flinch, though she does close her eyes, that act one of reflex. "It seemed important," she murmurs. "It has haunted me. So little I encounter touches me to these depths. I felt it worth my time."

Her eyes open. "Only now there is you."

Shadow King has posed:
    "I can explain what it is, if you would like. Or WHY it is. Perhaps then you will not seek to destroy it." There isn't a judgement there, really. More an amusement. She's entertaining, to it. And also a slippery quality. Like that it is more than fine with letting her make any number of assumptions about what it is, or isn't.

    Not it. Him? There's a masculine quality to the awareness. The shape and yet shapeless thing reclines in the throne that was always there. Thinking otherwise is so strange. Of course it was there, and right wherever he chose it to be. He also picks up on her appreciation, and adjusts again. Human 'enough' for his current whim. In a place where thoughts make materials, he is as robust as he thinks to be. The finesse level with the plane is extreme.

    "It is me that haunts you, not the small broken thing, though. Welcome." The voice is pleased, interested, attention very fixed on her. The whole citadel is 'aware', looking through her and her essence here, perhaps.

Emma Frost has posed:
There is a pause to cast thought and a look down the stairwell. "It should not be left in torment," Emma says softly, striving to keep her focus. To remember what drew her here... and what semblance of good there is in her, that should be brought to bear. She is, after all, not a creature who would normally seek to torture another for mere whim. Not even, as this was left, for a warning.

And true, she has placed a gender upon the thought. Though truth be told, it could have been feminine in her mind. It is not the body that she finds intriguing, but the thought.

Still, she prefer the masculine in her dalliances.

"Why, why do you leave it there? This place, it is yours now. What need is there?" She gestures about, and admits, "It is truth. You have haunted me since I first saw your handiwork. Fear and loathing in equal measures. And now?"

She gives a vague shrug. "I didn't expect this."

Shadow King has posed:
    "Hm. Well. I am not without mercy." With a gentle flutter of thought alone, the tortured thing settles into calm. There's no thought, nothing, just a blank, quiet thing now. It is still there, the chains remain, though now it may show up a little better as being some kind of conduit. It is connecting, bridging to other places, other minds, creating a little hub of some type. If this large entity is a spider, this is a thread that leads to other threads, that he can easily track.

    "There now. You have succeeded. Not all things have to be so difficult," says the astral bundle of thought and amusement. "At least, for now," he adds. The ease of whim suggests it can revert to the previous state just as quickly. "Have you come to ask other boons so /selflessly/?"

Emma Frost has posed:
Emma pauses, confused. It should not have been so easy. Nor does she actually trust that.. No. She did not come to calm the thing. She came to free it; to give it the release it most deserved.

"It lives, still. Not the mercy I would ask."

"You know what I came to do."

Shadow King has posed:
    There's sense of amused pleasure. "Have you /given up/ on repairing it, then? I suspect you are quite capable of that," the entity answers, in a serene way. "Hmmmm."
    With a gesture and tug of hand that are probably unnecessary, the tortured remains of the mind are somewhat brutally hauled off the stairs and dropped at his feet. He extends one foot -- a shadow encased in sink, and gingerly prods the chained soul. It rolls over, 'staring' aghast up at the ceiling. It is a shell of things, but is not in pain. Obliterated? Maybe not fully. It would take more than a cusory look to determine that.

    The throne's occupant relaxes, trailing silky fingers around the arms of the throne. His eyes are made of the fireflies, churning. There's something human about it: it isn't innately a castle or place. It is more human in manner than actually being a building would warrant.

Emma Frost has posed:
"I thought of healing it," Emma admits. "I could have given it all it needed. But what sort of life is that?"

She moves closer, pacing near the thing that has been dropped there. Still but a memory of humanity. Much as she remembers it, if not moreso.

"It would only ever be what I made it, now. You would think that should please me, yes?"

Emma regards the thing. Feels a stirring of pity within her where before there had been revulsion and terror. It seems strange to be so calm in the face of this, both the creature in the throne, and the one at its feet. But it is why she came, is it not? That relief still carries her.

"It should die," she says simply. "Nobody should carry the weight of its healing. So many mistakes could be made."

She gives a small laugh, and looks up. "Not what you expected, is it? Then again, neither are you what I expected. This place. You.. If there were boons, I would ask for more."

Shadow King has posed:
    "Do you think so? Do you think there are limits such as that?" asks the entity on the throne. It angles upper body. And then adjusts visage once more. He is a handsome male, dusky of skin, exotic, with fireflies deep in black eyes. The silks wrap but don't exactly hide anything much. Why do it? To extend both hands, palms splayed, fingers open. For a brief second the fingers spread like monstrous talons, but then the sharpness faded. "Come. I will show you," offers the calm, tempting vocal. "Sit here with me. I will guide you. I know all of what he was. And in this place, even a small memory becomes reality, with enough willpower."

    The regal entity smiles to her, a coaxing quality, along with a darker seduction. He isn't pressing on her mind, though. Choosing is /so/ much better. "/Wield/ your power with strength. Mistakes are beyond this place and not welcome here," he teases.

Emma Frost has posed:
Are there limits? Emma considers.

"With the mind, what limits can there be?" She considers the thing at the foot of the throne again. "But it would be a cruelty to create a puppet. The mind can be made to forget, but what of the rest? The body knows what it knows. He would wake at nights in terror, never knowing why. Shrink at shadows, or voices that sound too much of silk and satin, and never understand where this sudden fear came from."

She smiles at the man on the throne. "He would never love fireflies again."

And there it is, in her eyes, the look of one who is past the point of caring that she should have turned away long ago, and stays in favour of a beautiful mind - however terrible it might also be.

She knows she shouldn't, but oh.. the clarion call of it all. The seductive nature of thoughts that carry on past the bounds of mere mortality and reach into the spectrum of the divine. Eeternity. The mysteries of the universe..

If this were the sixties, Emma, in her poodle skirt, has just picked up a cigarette and let the greaser in the leather jacket take her to the drive-in.

Weild, he says. Weild.

Cigarette stubbed out with a pointed toe. Emma considers the thing at his feet, and begins.

Shadow King has posed:
    The entity drifts in and around and behind her. Those hands settle against her shoulders, in a way. It is all mental, which actually makes it much deeper, much heavier than just a /touch/. And he floods power through her.

    It is guiding but also pushing, like stepping into a river and expecting it to lead the boat downstream. The current is suddenly a full rapids of surging ability. He's giving her a small look into what he can channel. Weild the little sword of power? This is a magical flaming sword that calls the fabric of the plane into anything and everything. He could destroy the existance of everything that this man is. In fact, this exact power removed all traces of a horrific mage battle outside. It feels the same. That ability to just completely UNMAKE. And yet he can also make.

    The memories are pulled forward. One of ... thousands. THOUSANDS of variants of memories and entities. This is just one. That can be rebuilt. And he will lead her in how it is done.

    She isn't wrong that the guy may have some little flaws: but all of them are ones that this creature is installing. Being unable to look at fireflies? It's intentionally there. The chains are left. The tortured entity is making his own chains. The level of manipulation is possibly outright horrifying. Yet the man is rebuilt, and Emma will sense that he reaches out, worried, to those in the network. And they reply with eager relief and greetings. They were so afraid he had died. No, he assures them; he was in a nightmare only...

    And the power flow to Emma doesn't wane right away. Instead, the source leaves it open a little longer, to give her time to bask in the raw strength of it all. To desire, to feel that greed. And to allow all those seeds to plant in her. To let temptations be reality, to WIELD. And to let him grant her the power to do great, and greater, things.

Emma Frost has posed:
When she sees it like that, it's all so simple. It all makes such simple sense. It's like the way rain hits pavement, or how stars are in the heavens. There is no morality to it. They merely are.

The same with this power, what it does. What she allows him to show her, and fingers herself embracing. There is no yes or no or right or wrong, there are merely things that are. That happen.

Those chains? It could have cast them off. But it chose to embrace them. To let its trembling beginings of a new life start with being bound to itself. To its own fears and weaknesses.

So she strengthens those bonds. Let's it bind itself more fully. As long as the thing grasps at tendrils of power to wrap itself in, Emma feeds.

And fireflies.. such beautiful creatures, only seeking to find a mate. They pulse and light in patterns. Different patterns for different mates. She gives him streetlights. Stars. Headlights. Any sudden pinpoint of light. All of them will instill that sudden and uncertain fear.

But it's him, she tells herself, not her. The poor blighted creature thirsts for these things to define itself.

And the man on the throne.. his touch thrills her. In truth, she seeks more to give the blighted one, if only to let Him brush against her mind further. To feel his embrace.

She is, for lack of better words, besotted and enthralled.

Shadow King has posed:
    There's a comfortable willingness to slide her further into his embrace. He will make everything feel better: no need for moral questions. The rules of this place are easy to change, why not morality be the same? "Beautifully done," the 'man' says, flooding her with his own sense of pride and strength in it. Feeding her ego heavily.

    "I knew you were one to come visit me, to /truly/ understand this plane," he says, smooth, silk. He passes the talons against her ear and hair, or perhaps into her mind itself, as this is the place where thoughts are everything. A subtle rearrangement made, as she leaves herself so open to him. He will boost those obsessions, those healthy wants for things, desires of all kinds. The bliss of drink, the thrill of a good gamble. RISK. That which MIGHT be, COULD be, he is a master of offering the bait. And it is so close, and he is such a kind and loving god.

    "Speak to me anytime, dear Emma. I am with you," he promises her, tender. There's a place beyond it, as this is not just a one-way road, either. She can sense back to him a little, sense a feeling of an extreme power bonded to him in some way, that is beyond mortal understanding.

Emma Frost has posed:
That night, Emma sleeps well. Better than she has in memory. Her dreams are touched with thoughts that are just out of reach, but fill her with pleasure. There's a field dancing with fireflies. A breeze. The winking of stars as they drift away into the cosmos.

She feels.. filled. Boundless. Powerful.

And ready to take on the world.