(Lucretia isn't aware of any of this happening to him, because the moment she pops her own canister open her vision goes black.
It takes a while to adjust to the speed with which the memories come rushing up out of the gloom. It's very quick pace, and yet she knows every single moment with a painful intimacy, staring where she had stopped with the Legato Conservatory and panning across the cycles ahead like a flip book, most of them uneventful, routine. And then: cycle sixty-five, which drags. Lucretia doubles over, grips Taako's hand like a lifeline and knowing he's there is the only thing that keeps her from sobbing aloud. Switching to the Hanging Arcaneum is a relief, the memories sliding seamlessly into Abeir-Toril.
And then it happens. She's writing her journal, the journal, compiling it out of everything she's ever written– there's Fisher, huge, singing in her tank as she consumes it and– Magnus, bursting in– sliding her hands underneath Taako's arms and forcing him to stand on his shaking legs– walking Merle down to the beach– the all-consuming panic that accompanies not knowing where Lup is and– Davenport, struck almost dumb, mumbling his own name over and over as she takes his hand in hers. Barry missing? Not part of the plan, not part of the plan, not part of the plan.
The year that follows is her second alone, but still brings the crushing isolation akin to cycle sixty-five with it. Lots of sleepless nights at her desk, and half-eaten meals. Searching for Lup and Barry when ever possible. Everything blends together in a swirl of memories and Lucretia can feel herself growing older, harder, more tired: Wonderland is another abrupt shift in the dynamic, an explosion of colour on the backs of her eyelids.
She is two years into her one year plan. Everything had finally been starting to slow down until she could count the days again and then Wonderland had stuck a stick into it and swirled everything around until she can't remember what time it it, or how long she's been there. It rushes her forward, skipping past the sacrifices, the personal pain, and comes to a screeching halt during something called The Escape Game. The elves are bearing down upon both her and Cam, offering her the chance to run and the last thing Lucretia remembers is accepting–
And then she comes to, and lets go of Taako's hand with a hard gasp, like she hadn't breathed once since she opened the canister. Perhaps that's why her chest aches. When she brings her hands in front of her, the canister clattering to the ground she's shocked by the sight of her aged skin, the stiffness of her joints. She presses her palms to her eyes in distress, nudging her glasses up her forehead– had she been crying, this entire time? Her face is wet with tears.)
whew soz
It takes a while to adjust to the speed with which the memories come rushing up out of the gloom. It's very quick pace, and yet she knows every single moment with a painful intimacy, staring where she had stopped with the Legato Conservatory and panning across the cycles ahead like a flip book, most of them uneventful, routine. And then: cycle sixty-five, which drags. Lucretia doubles over, grips Taako's hand like a lifeline and knowing he's there is the only thing that keeps her from sobbing aloud. Switching to the Hanging Arcaneum is a relief, the memories sliding seamlessly into Abeir-Toril.
And then it happens. She's writing her journal, the journal, compiling it out of everything she's ever written– there's Fisher, huge, singing in her tank as she consumes it and– Magnus, bursting in– sliding her hands underneath Taako's arms and forcing him to stand on his shaking legs– walking Merle down to the beach– the all-consuming panic that accompanies not knowing where Lup is and– Davenport, struck almost dumb, mumbling his own name over and over as she takes his hand in hers. Barry missing? Not part of the plan, not part of the plan, not part of the plan.
The year that follows is her second alone, but still brings the crushing isolation akin to cycle sixty-five with it. Lots of sleepless nights at her desk, and half-eaten meals. Searching for Lup and Barry when ever possible. Everything blends together in a swirl of memories and Lucretia can feel herself growing older, harder, more tired: Wonderland is another abrupt shift in the dynamic, an explosion of colour on the backs of her eyelids.
She is two years into her one year plan. Everything had finally been starting to slow down until she could count the days again and then Wonderland had stuck a stick into it and swirled everything around until she can't remember what time it it, or how long she's been there. It rushes her forward, skipping past the sacrifices, the personal pain, and comes to a screeching halt during something called The Escape Game. The elves are bearing down upon both her and Cam, offering her the chance to run and the last thing Lucretia remembers is accepting–
And then she comes to, and lets go of Taako's hand with a hard gasp, like she hadn't breathed once since she opened the canister. Perhaps that's why her chest aches. When she brings her hands in front of her, the canister clattering to the ground she's shocked by the sight of her aged skin, the stiffness of her joints. She presses her palms to her eyes in distress, nudging her glasses up her forehead– had she been crying, this entire time? Her face is wet with tears.)