[Your consciousness drifts in to the sound of discordant whispers. It sounds like a hushed argument in another room, something you can't quite catch. You're cold. Your skin tingles slightly, and then...]
[This room is all in blue and gold. It's also very rich and pretty, and there's a full length mirror on one wall. Sitting in front of it, in profile to you, on the edge of a dressing bench, is... you. An older you, worn just like Tristan was. But this you also seems to have recently gone through quite the ordeal. His clothes (ornamental finery that doesn't even suit you now, let alone in the glimpses you may remember) are torn open down his chest, hanging off his left shoulder entirely. His throat is dark with the bruises of strangling, and he's idly poking at a rather gruesome hole in his chest. It's a kind of big hole. Honestly no one should be alive when it looks like someone's ripped straight through to their heart.
He doesn't look up when you come in, but acknowledges you all the same.]
[ He hopes to avoid such a fate, himself. But that's only if he gets so lucky, he knows. And he's not questioning how this Jupiter knows he's looking for answers either -- the answer for that, at least, is obvious. ]
[He gives a slight huff, tugging his clothes back over his shoulder. It partially obscures the wound, at least, and he doesn't seem concerned about messing with it.]
[ Still, it's strange to just leave some version of himself in that state. He might not have healing magic, but... Jupiter shrugs off his own coat, holding it out on offer. ]
[In your time, this room was empty. The Queen's Suite, saved like the rest of this place for a time when Tristan might want to marry. A symbol, in its emptiness, of the tyrant empress of a mother he'd sent away. But now it's a lived-in, pretty room, though it carries a certain feeling of sadness. Near the doorway to the outside, looking through the window, is a beautiful woman you don't know.]
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He doesn't look up when you come in, but acknowledges you all the same.]
I see you're being thorough.
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[ This is a sight to take in. But after a moment he nods, and walks over to this other self of his. ]
Just so. I should have expected this.
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[He doesn't seem inclined to do anything about the gaping wound. He's just kind of examining it like. Huh. It doesn't seem to be hurting him, either.]
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You know you shouldn't mess with that. Though all things considered, it should be fatal anyway.
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[He glances at you, sideways, considering.]
You wanted answers?
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[ He hopes to avoid such a fate, himself. But that's only if he gets so lucky, he knows. And he's not questioning how this Jupiter knows he's looking for answers either -- the answer for that, at least, is obvious. ]
I do. Do you think you have them?
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Tristan never likes giving answers, does he?
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[He gives a slight huff, tugging his clothes back over his shoulder. It partially obscures the wound, at least, and he doesn't seem concerned about messing with it.]
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Undoubtedly. Here, take this to wear instead.
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...Thanks.
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[He's fine obviously. Gosh!]
You have questions, don't you?
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[ But he won't push it either. ]
I do. I'd like to hear what you're doing here.
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[ He looks around the room, before moving towards the mirror. ]
And will this take me elsewhere too?
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[ But he's not going to go through it, stepping back. ]
I'm going to have a look around, but there's a chance I'll be back. Take care of yourself in the mean time.
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[He won't stop you, anyway.]
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[ And yet, he will approach her anyway. ]
Hello.
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Hello Jupiter.
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... are you well?
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