Memory: Executing Isla Yura.
Regained: Day 122 - Bone Witch's game

Contents:

The dagger clatters on the basement stones like a bell.
The man's arm falls. Silver gleams through his dark velvets: metal purer than iron, than glass or ice or stone. It resonates -- and still he feels the distant echo of its striking in his bones.
Pinned through the wretched cultist's chest, the chain holds fast and still. Only the body is shaking.
A pearled hand lifts. Set behind the length of his fingers, the man's a skeleton, a puppet, a child's toy nightmare at best. He turns his head away. "It's all right," his own voice says -- gently, gently, to a dark-haired girl frozen on her feet before him. "It's all right, Alice. It was me who did that, you see."

Once again, the tin don't lie! Isla Yura's a slimy foreign faux-cultist of a nobleman who's wrangled a bloody ritual to reenact the Tragedy of Sablier. In this memory, Jack vaguely registers his reasons for it all but doesn't pay attention to them. He walks forward (and are the steps smaller than he remembers?) as the chain retracts and Isla Yura falls into one of his gory circles.

The Abyss, Jack says, might have once been beautiful, but he sees it now as nothing more than a tomb.

Alice is the focal point of this memory, and nostalgia for an unseen Glen. More alienating still is the vague sense of distant awakening -- of detachment as he brings the sword down through Isla Yura's skull.

( For reference. )

Effects:
+ The memory may also feel a little damaged: as if all sensations have been passed through a sieve, all sights seen through glass.
+ maybe I've lost someone after all.
+ so that's I got the blooded sword. . .
+ 100 Hero of Sablier gravitas?!
+ 100 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . uhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.
+ 1000 ABILITY TO COPE WITH VIOLENCE WITHOUT TRYING TO SMILE HIS WAY OUT OF IT, FUCK YEAH