October Aftermath: Crystal Clear

[lifeaftr_mods]

Who: All!
What: You're back, for better or worse. Time to recover.
When: Backdated to the 24th and beyond.
Where: The Monkey Compound, Islets, etc.
Warnings: Mark as you go.


No matter where you are on the morning of the 24th, things will very abruptly go dark.

Unless you're dead. In which case, things are already dark. And you do not see this.

For the rest of you, however, the Storyteller appears only briefly. Gone is their seemingly indifferent nature; as the rabbit hops too and throe, the pages of their tome flick back and forth in an erratic pattern, stopping on a blank page for only a moment, before continuing on. Despite the pages always turning in the one direction, there seems to be no end to them, not at all.

"I'll keep this brief, for the moment. All of you have now been removed from the caverns below," A haggard sigh- and a reluctant addition. "Those of you still alive.

"Your efforts have allowed me access to what lies below. I have sealed off the entrances- from now, the responsibility of cleaning up the mess is upon me."

And that appears to be it. Darkness returns, along with the sensation of lying upon the sand. Birds call out from the jungle, joining the rhythmic shift of the waves. No matter where you were on the island; underground, or above, you awaken upon the shoreline near the Storyteller's temple, along with the rest of the survivors.



"For what it is worth, I am truly sorry."

---

[[If you have yet to do so, make sure you confirm your character's death here!]]

Comments

SURVIVORS || The 24th and 25th

[lifeaftr_mods]

Looking for someone who's no longer with us? Need some time to process and recover?

Or perhaps you simply wish to throw yourself into work, and forget this ever happened. Do so here!

Muffet | the 24th | OTA

[prettypurpleparlor]

[For what it's worth. If they had asked her, Muffet would have told the Storyteller that remorse is always worth far more than we think, even if it's almost never worth enough.]

[She was not asked, and therefore does not offer.]

[Instead she wakes on the shore, pulling herself up to a neatly-arranged sitting position with only the barest moment of hesitation, poise pulled around herself like a shield as she methodically checks herself over for any crystals clinging to her clothes or shoes, any injuries, any contamination that she or the Storyteller might have missed on bringing her out of the caves.]

[There is none. She is alive, whole, and safe. This time, at least.]

[Time to go see who isn't. There's work to be done, people to help keep living and others to keep vigil for as they wait for them to return.]

[Muffet rises smoothly to her feet, brushes the sand off her clothing, and sets off to go attend to the other survivors.]

[She can't fix everything, but whatever help and comfort she can give, she will.]

[greatcleavage]

Are you okay?

[Roy feels like the rest of his existence will be spent asking this question, and he bemoans the repetitiveness of it. Not the sentiment, of course; he is a creature of responsibility, of Good really, and he legitimately cares. But he also knows that whatever happened, he got a dealt a weird hand in this case -- and he doesn't know why. So a small little shard of guilt lingers amidst all that too.]

[...And because this is Muffet, who has all her ladylike decorum in place even before he can reach her, he has to add a corollary, with a sharp note and a point of the finger that tells her he means it.]

Real answer, please.

[demonpuppy]

[On a slightly more secluded part of the beach, Chip sits near the shoreline with their knees pulled up to their chest. The water laps at their feet, starting to soak through their shoes, but they don't care, really.]

[People...died, down there. They died, and even if the Storyteller has promised they will return somehow...it's a hard thing to truly realize. They'd been helpless to do anything, to fight back...they're nothing but a burden here.]

[They don't hear Muffet's approach, but she might hear a tell-tale sniffle and notice the red shot to Chip's eyes, even if most of the damp has been wiped away.]

Mickey Mouse | 24th

[souris_keteer]

[Mickey is unharmed, relatively. His feet are sore since he has no shoes, and his stomach's caving in, since he kept giving his food away. But other than those things, he's in perfect health... until you get to his hollow, cold eyes.

This is the face of a once naive, innocent soul who saw his friends die. Who had to walk over their corpses. He's shattered. He can't think, he can't do more than sit up. He doesn't even try doing his usual "how's everyone doing" jog to catch up. He just sits and stares at nothing.]

...

Fucking hell, dude.

[prettypurpleparlor]

[Muffet's heart breaks a little bit at the sight of him, and she looks at him for one long, wordless moment before kneeling down beside him and reaching out to give the poor boy a hug.]

[It's not, she knows, enough- but it's something clearly long overdue, despite that.]

[seesbosscrotch]

It's not as easy as it all sounded, is it?

[Mar drops down by the mouse with a little thump that, given the weight of his armor, ought to be a louder one. Honestly, he's not even sure Mickey will remember the conversation they had in the caves... but if he did, well. Maybe now he sees just why Mar had been saying what he had.]

Amaterasu || the 24th OTA

[mamaterasu]

[It's been a long few days. Days, spanning through the ticking seconds as if they were years, decades, centuries even. Amaterasu is tired, and not simply because of the fatigue that plagues her inkless form - holiness spent from the days of battle against the crystal creatures. She is tired emotionally and mentally as well - this battle, much like the one she was flung into upon her arrival here, was messy and sudden. She does not think ill of the Storyteller, as many would. No, she pities them somewhat, and feels that pang of solitude knowing the onus for blame will fall heavily upon their shoulders.

Truly, she prays to shoulder some of that blame, but that is not her place. It is the truth of divinity, ill happenings are oft blamed upon those that are held at a high pedestal among the mortal coil. Is she upset that people had to die for this? Of course, but the discontent she feels is at herself - she couldn't keep her promise. She couldn't protect them. She couldn't save them. It hurts. It hurts more than anything else...the weight of her promise, shattered like crystal. Is there solace in knowing the dead will return? Mm...somewhat, but the damage has since been done. This is a time to recover, to mend, to rest.

She is not offering herself that luxury.

Those upon the islets are the first to see the white wolf slowly prowling their grounds, scratching at their doors or peering into their homes. She won't take food, even if it's offered, she simply looks around, checks on people, then moves on. Anyone she feels needs a bit of company...she'll stay with for a while longer. Someone to talk to, to hold on to, to cry on. Someone who won't judge them, who won't speak, and who will listen and offer only a warm, comforting presence. Sometimes, that is all that is needed to ease a troubled soul.

Try as one may to have her stay, once the occupants of the home she is visiting are asleep, Amaterasu travels back to the temple of the Storyteller. There, by the alter, she curls up and finally allows herself to sleep to regain her strength, and return to her godly form by the next sunrise. She will not move from that spot, finding peace near the temple ruins, amidst the aura of her sibling god. Perhaps in due time, she will check upon them as well...]

I was writing a tag bomb but I had to post this immediately.

[achievementhunter]

[They're only here to ensure all of their goods are still accounted for. That was the excuse they'd given to Sans; a skeleton who's stubbornly refused to allow them to go back alone. Not for long. Not overnight. The look he'd given them as they'd insisted on doing this had warned to not take their time- if they didn't come back on their own, he'd come find them.

They still have his jacket in their hammock. It doesn't really smell like detergent, anymore. Doesn't smell like they'd washed it copious times, to get the bloodstains out.

It smells like dirt and flowers.

Their copy of Kitchen is tucked under the bundles of clothes and blankets. Not Chara's. Theirs.

Chara has no idea how long they sit there on their own, book in their lap. Staring blankly at nothing, until there's a scratching sound, at the door. The snuffling of a dog, poking their nose into the gap at the bottom of the door. Their snout is white.

...They stumble to their feet evently. Unlatch the look, let it open a cratch. Falter. It's her, of course. And she may not know who Frisk is, anymore, or them, but she holds a familiarity that's too strong, right now. A castle in the mist. A warm bed, their Partner beside them. Hands clasped together, even in sleep.

And a dog at the end of the bed, watching over them. There were nights when her presence used to make them feel like they could go to sleep too.



They miss everything. They miss Sans. They miss Wade. They miss Rin. They miss her, lounging about in the sun, tongue lolling out of her mouth whenever she did something cheeky. They miss Asriel's hand as they helped him climb to the top of the tree-house, and the smile on their Partner's face.

They never should have agreed to this. When they finally let the door swing open the entire way, there's-- nothing. There's nothing they can do.

They've lost everything. And then, despite everything, they lost even more. The child tries to speak. Nothing happens. They try again to speak. Nothing happens.

There's no words. Just heat spilling over their cheeks as they drop to their knees, raise their hands to brush at white cheeks, gently scratch at her ears. Pretend that the sound that escapes them isn't- nobody likes a crybaby.

And when they eventually manage to speak, Chara doesn't say-- anything. They don't say anything, about the grief that's making itself far too easily seen.]

Good girl. You're a good girl...

[Is all they manage, instead.]

Re: Amaterasu || the 24th OTA

[prettypurpleparlor]

[Amaterasu isn't the only one making the rounds, checking on whoever she can find.]

[Muffet is only mortal, but she nods in understanding as they pass each other- sometimes, you just have to do what you can to help, even if it may not be enough. She's carrying a basket woven out of palm fronds on one arm, and it's full of food. For all its' healing properties, there are some things her cooking simply cannot fix- but it's better than trying to handle all this while hungry.]

I'm glad to see you with us.

[demonpuppy]

[Chip had never really gotten a chance to protest Asriel leaving their shared cottage--temporarily, they hope, but in the end they probably didn't deserve to ask Asriel to stay. Whatever reasons he had for wanting to go with Kidwun, they were clearly stronger than the flimsy ties of friendship to Chip, and so...here they remain. Carefully watering the flower that had bloomed in the corner where they sleep, doing their best to keep it alive and well.]

[The scratching and snuffling at the door makes them pause, and they turn to look at the door for several moments before standing to go and open it. The soft pressure of bright white was apparent before their hand even touches the handle, so Chip is hardly surprised to see the white wolf standing there. They blink, staring, before lowering their head.]

I'm...'m not causing trouble. I don't wanna hurt anyone more.

if this is too late it's totally fine! ♥

[tenthstreetbred]

[She's back on the Islets. She's sitting by a mana pool, basking in whatever potent magical energy it gives her to keep her alive. It hadn't occurred to her that part of the weight and exhaustion pulling at her shoulders had been because she hadn't been near one in a spot of time.

It only further proves to her that she shouldn't be alive at all. But that's neither here nor there. She knew wishing to live after the war had been a bright bulb of foolishness born from the adrenaline of the final acts of a rapidly dwindling life. It's never been about what she wants.

And yet here she sits, alive despite all the risks she has taken. She is both grateful and empty. Watching anyone die has never been easy, but slow and painful deaths stick with you, lingering in the shadows of memory long after the person involved is gone.

It's as she is lost to these thoughts that she catches sight of white fur in the corner of her eyes, turning to see a white dog padding nearby. It strikes her as odd; she doesn't remember seeing a dog around these parts. All the same though there is something nice about it. She gives the creature a weary smile.]

Hey there, buddy. What are you doing 'round here?

Guzma || The 24th OTA UNLESS SPECIFIED

[yallstupid]

[From the first moment he set foot in that damn cavern, Guzma refused to take a step further. He didn't go in more than maybe a few feet, before the creeping anxiety took hold and he waited out his time at base camp, crouched away from the majority of people and kept company by his two pokemon. As soon as they were allowed to take their leave? He all but kidnapped the brat and marched off back to his home. The glittering caverns - beautiful, dark, and doubtlessly deadly reminded him a bit too much of Ultra Space. Not only that, but the inkling feeling of something watching him, or following him simply did not sit right. Thanks, but no thanks. He'd rather not relive that nightmare, thanks.

Of course, the stillness back home was not without its pains as well. Caught unawares by the sudden darkness hitting him, Guzma reels somewhat, only to heave a sigh of relief (for a half second) when he's greeted by the Storyteller. A message, and he braces himself for it. It's...a bit what he expected, but still nothing he was prepared for, or happy to hear.

Those of you still alive.

Hah. Of course there'd be casualties. Of course. He grinds his teeth and squeezes his eyes shut, just glad he took Luna out of there. He doesn't know too many details about what happened, just rumors and word of mouth he's heard in passing crystal monsters, contagious, spreads throughout the body... How many died? And who? He doesn't know, isn't told, and that's what ticks him into a frustrated itch. There's so many kids on this damn island, how many of them probably died because of this? Does he know anyone that died? His fingers comb through his hair, mussing up the white bits more and more as he paces out by the shore near his home. Eventually, his legs give and he falls on his rear in the sand, head bowed between his bent legs, hands still in his hair.

He's so grossly unprepared for this place. He's not strong at all. He didn't improve at all. He's weak, and if he even attempts to fight back at anything, he risks the lives of his pokemon. They don't just faint here, they die. And nothing in the world could prepare Guzma for the loss of even one of his pokemon. He lost three coming here, but they're all still safe. They're all still alive. ...What a shitty trainer he is. Worthless, weak, no good... Guzma tightens the grip on his hair, grinding his teeth together.

What's wrong with you, Guzma? Why can't you do anything right? Why can't you get stronger? Why can't you actually be someone worthwhile? Someone who doesn't have to hear about other people dying. Someone who doesn't sit here in the sand feeling sorry for themself. It's disgusting. You're disgusting.]

I'm disgusting... [You didn't do anything to help.] I didn't...do anything-- [People are dead.] They're... [Your friends are probably dead.] M-My--...

[Coward.

COWARD.

COWARD. COWARD. COWARD. COWARD. COWARD. COWARD. COWARD. COWARD. COWARD.]
---

Closed to Karamatsu 10/25

[By the next day, Guzma's calmed somewhat. Not entirely, but he's no longer feeling like he ought to stay in bed the whole day (though that didn't stop him from waking up closer to mid-afternoon). When he finally gets out of the house, he doesn't linger around the islets for longer than perhaps a few minutes. Instead, he's out for most of the day, returning only close to sunset, where the sun colors the sky with vivid orange, reds, blues and purples. It's quite lovely to behold, stars already beginning to dot the darkening sky and the golden sun dancing in bright, shimmering splashes upon the dark waves of the sea. Like home, and yet not home at all...

He doesn't like asking for favors, especially not from someone he dislikes, but...he feels it's necessary. Wheedling out the idiot's location from Luna, a certain sunglass'd NEET will be getting a knock on his door or...shack wall. Whatever is still in one piece, to be honest. To his credit, Guzma looks far less threatening than he usually does. In fact, he just looks tired - like he's slept for 4 years straight and not at all. If he gets the right sibling, he doesn't wait for him to speak, immediately opening with--]

I need you to do something for me. [A sigh, and Guzma rubs his face.] ...Please.

[holdmyhand]

[ it's....been a weird day for Luna, too. Death? Is not something she's familiar with. Not something she's ever really had a grasp on, and mourning is something she's never had to actually do. There have surely been sad events in her life but...

The words spoken from the little rabbit's mouth are daunting, and heavy. The very definition of mournful. And the atmosphere is filled with remorse, and some small bouts of crying, and...

...everything is not okay. But Luna? Doesn't know the details. And for now, she decides that she doesn't have to. Doesn't have to understand the gravity of what's going on, or the details of anything that happened beyond when Guzma pulled her out of the caves before she could join everyone else. And...she was mad. Furious, even. He isn't her guardian. He's not her dad, or her brother-- and she'd been thinking about how settled down things have felt recently, and how overwhelming he is when it comes to doing-- well, anything on her own.

His words travel across her clammy skin, into her ears, and settle into the dark crevasses of her heart. She watches him, uncharacteristically quiet. His hands sink through his wild, white hair and she watches him settle into a somewhat familiar routine. Blame himself. Hurt himself. The grunts around the mansion said the same thing-- he's a good person, but...rough around the edges, and certainly rough on himself.

The most rough on himself. ]

Guzma. [ she walks to stand next to him. Don't think of the details-- the things making the water sting at the corner of your eyes. Remember what you have to be thankful for. Remember...

...that you haven't seen Ren since your adventure. That Mickey is still no where to be seen, and the nice, blind man with the glasses is nowhere to be seen. The twins in the matching sweaters are gone. ]

...h-hey. [ her hand settles on the corner of his shirt and she pulls softly. Don't pull your hair out. Stop saying those things. What do you say? What do you do?

Luna doesn't have any answers. No multiple choice actions. She can only pick one way, and then continue on that path.

That's it. ]

Lup | closed

[hellawrath]

10/24 - I Can't Be The Only One Who Feels; closed to Ren

So the tomb spit her out again after all. A bit faster than last time, too. Lup can't bring herself to feel much of anything about that, besides the grit of sand beneath her hands and the soft patter of rain on her face. She'd reached a point down there where she was barely present, where she'd been nothing but a single thought - continue, destroy - just a conductor for arcane damage, a role she'd had a decade to internalize. It took the rabbit's brief appearance to ignite something more personal, more real in her, but they didn't stick around to get the benefit of her wrath. Coward.

Lup drags herself to her feet, grabs the two backpacks, and heads for camp. She doesn't spare a thought for checking who else is waking up here. She already knows who isn't. Camp seems pretty pointless too, it's just more acting on instinct, somewhere to regroup. Bad choice of words. On the way, she stops by a hidden tree cache and gently places Taako's hat and wand inside. It's not a funeral, but she feels like screaming anyway, for a hot second. It's just for safekeeping, he'll want them back. Wonder how long she could pull off pretending she forgot to bring the hat, that'd get a rise out of him. Yeah.

Back on the Starblaster, she'd hole up in Taako's room, those very few times he didn't make it through the year. She'd surround herself with his things, clothes, books, trinkets, curl up in his bed, mess with whatever he'd been working on that year. It hurt like hell, but it was something. There's nothing like that here, she realizes when she steps into the abandoned campsite. It's all temporary, utilitarian, pretty much any random adventurer or social outcast could be living here. It's, it's horrible. Wrong. To have no real, uniquely familiar trace of his presence, nothing to reflect her brother back to her, it makes her feel more bereft, more truly, truly alone than the dark echoing caverns had. The bags slip from her sagging shoulders, she staggers to the sodden firepit, falls to her knees beside a pot still half full of rancid porridge he'd made the night before they were taken. She hasn't cried since she left Taako's body behind, but now, finally, she does.


10/25 - Setting Fire To Our Insides For Fun; closed to Chara

One thing the numerous deaths of her family have taught Lup is that the day you lose someone isn't the worst. Sure, it's up there, but it's full of, of anger and horror, full of fighting or running or a mission to complete. No, it's all the days they stay dead. Lup is wandering aimlessly, couldn't bear remaining in that bleak, silent camp, can't sit and rest anywhere without her brother to huddle into and goof around to distract her. The question of how long it's gonna be like this is clawing at her mind, she's trying so hard to shut it out, but it's merciless. She can't do another ten years. She said she would.

She'd said a lot of things, like how she'd raise hell until the rabbit would regret ever sending them down there. But now that she's here it's just, just the ocean, trees, cliffs, indifferent and unaffected like the god whose home they are. It's hateful to her, she wants to ruin it all and there's half formed Fire Bolts wreathing her hands, blistering her fingers, because spell shaping only works if you spare the concentration for wanting it to. But would a couple trees on fire matter at all? She can't stand the thought of not being noticed. The temple would be a blackened pock on this earth by now, if she didn't know it's the most likely place for the dead to return. She stays far away from it anyway, not trusting herself near it.

So she trudges along the shore, gaunt and alone, until she comes across the burnt out husk of a raft by an outcropping of rocks reaching into the sea. Recognition hits her like a knife to the gut, memories of their joyful reunion, that first night, their work in tandem, the crying and the comfort, it all tears away whatever composure she had left, and her hand gripping the Umbra Staff shakes. This island has done more to them than they've ever deserved, reduced them and taken him and spat her out and now the staff is shaking, a Fireball forming at its tip but she won't let it go, it's not enough, she feels the power course through her and reaches for more, keeps reaching, gathering and clawing and channeling, this is what she knows how to do, leaning into her wrath, commanding the elements with the force of her will. The flaming sphere grows without releasing, bolts of arcane energy hissing and darting from it, until she carves the very last of her strength from herself and her arm snaps up, the inferno expanding with a deafening roar, engulfing her, burning outward five feet, ten, twenty. The explosion lasts several long seconds, flames roiling and churning like a tornado, but finally they fade.

On a circle of blackened, molten sand cooling rapidly into glass, Lup collapses and welcomes the encroaching darkness of oblivion.

REVIVALS || 26th and beyond

[lifeaftr_mods]

Those who have died will find themselves returning to life on the morning of the 26th. Much like the rushed message provided to the survivors, the Storyteller will make short work of explaining that death comes with consequences- now that you've returned to life, you may find a few... side-effects, as your body adjusts.

Never fear. They also assure that any issues you may be experiencing should fade within the week. In the meantime, find your friends, rejoice at loving reunions, and readjust to living.

mira | ota

[encircling]

[ ... she can't say she didn't see it coming. The Storyteller had warned her. It still was the worst experience in her life--or one of them. At least she's back, she's alive, she's breathing.

Mira takes a few steps away from the temple and it's awful. She's so tired, and she has to take a rest. At this rate, she won't be able to do much of anything. Not fire an arrow, not use any of her magic, and that frightens the hell out of her.

Find her closer to the temple, or trying to make her way to the houses. She's probably taking a rest, regardless of where she's found. ]

Ardyn Izunia | ota

[scourgingstars]

[...Of course death would be meaningless here. Of course. So what he'd done had been absolutely pointless, and that was what infuriated him most of all.]

[Usually dying was an inconvenience of only a few seconds, so waking up somewhere else entirely was a bit more jarring. Ardyn calmly picked himself up, dusted the sand off of his coat and out of his hair, and started heading back to the islets without so much as a word.]

[Because no one else as knew as well as him that raging loudly against the divine was only something to fall upon deaf ears. Better to wait and find vengeance another way.]

Jaune ☽☽ OTA

[aurabble]

10/26

[He's alone.

And then he isn't.

Jaune opens his eyes to the gentle lull of waves, sucking in a panicked breath of distinctively salty air as he hauls himself up and blankly takes in his surroundings. The brightness stings at his eyes in comparison to the darkness he last remembered. Blinking a few times, to get sand out of his eyes, he glances down at his arm. Healthy and intact. He makes a fist a few times, watching his veins rise. No pain. Everything is telling him this is real and happening, but it isn't possible, and he's waiting for it to start back up again at any point, but it doesn't. It's almost as if nothing in the caves never happened.

But it did happen.

Jaune finally stands, making no other move forward at this point. He isn't sure if he wants to see if anyone else is around, but he needs proof that this is real. Removing his boots and socks, he approaches the ocean. The sand stings, but he thinks nothing of it.]

10/27 - 11/02

[He figures out what the Storyteller meant by consequences pretty quickly. But the more he learns about what he's lost, the more reckless he becomes. Wearing his armor and wielding his sword for extended periods of time is exhausting now, so he's sticking with his jeans and hoodie. He sticks to his gloves when the cut doesn't heal. What could happen now doesn't matter. The worst has already happened, and he just needs to stay focused. He needs something to do.

He needs to be more than helpless.

So, leaving his shield at the camp he shares with Weiss (because who needs a shield when your only defense is no defense?), he tries not to strain under the weight of his sword across his shoulder, hoping the smirk and brave face are convincing enough.]

Is it too soon to ask about going on another expedition?

[Haha it's not like half of them died or anything.]

10/28 Closed to Weiss

[Just because he bottles a lot up, doesn't make Jaune a patient person. With his weaknesses thrown back in his face, he was back at square 1 and proven right. He wasn't good enough. He couldn't help anyone. He couldn't even help himself. But other than being a little more tense and quiet than normal, he hadn't talked about what had happened with his friend.

He knew Weiss cared, so he felt genuinely bad about tricking her. But he was just tired. He had to make up for it somehow. "Borrowing" some of her firestarter beads while she was off doing something else, he waited back at their camp until she returned, smiling easily and standing up when she saw her.]

We haven't trained in a while. I was thinking maybe we could now?

the drifter | ota | will match formats!

[hyperlit]

26th; temple

They stumble to life with a wheezing intake of breath that leaves them reeling, their head spinning. It's not like every resurrection beneath the paws of a jackal, a god of death with the white rhombus imprinted behind her angular head like a halo. Those had been painful, yes, but they'd been immediate. Death had claimed them, and then they had woken, the same as ever, their companion bobbing faithfully beside them.

The world spins wildly, and the Drifter halt-staggers and drops to their knees. A spray of neon pink spatters across the ground, mercifully restored in tint and consistency more on par with what they've come to expect. And the fact that they are presently relieved at the dizzying sight of their own blood speaks to the horrors of being consumed by the crystalline green that wrapped them in stiff and unyielding quartz and ate into their lungs. They lacked the vocal cords to scream, but it had felt like a sort of screaming.

But something else is - wrong. It's wrong.

The world feels slightly off-kilter. Askew. As though perched on an unstable axis. The Drifter reaches out with one gloved hand, swiping at the air in a vague, unfocused groping for something that isn't there. Reaching for the sprite that must be beside them, must be malfunctioning -

And isn't even there.

The Drifter is not one for panic. Not generally. But abruptly deprived of their sole means of truly interacting with the world, their immediately response is to shoot to their feet and promptly overbalance, the ground tilting sickeningly with every movement. Despite the nausea, despite the flow of heating adrenaline, or whatever their race's equivalent of such a chemical may be, coiling at the base of their skull, despite the way each step increases their vertigo a thousandfold and nearly sends them plummeting back to the earth, the Drifter starts to claw their way across the floor, leaning against trees, snatching for walls, their dark eyes raking the ground and the grass surrounding them for the small, prismatic shape of their companion sprite.

They halt to spit up another gobbet of hot pink ichor ever few steps or so, but pay it little heed. They pay very little attention to anything besides the search, in fact.

28th and onward; still kind of near the temple

[No matter how they'd fiddled and prodded and cajoled and tried, even once they'd finally found their sprite, it remained, and remains, as stubbornly still and silent as something dead. Cupping it forlornly between their hands, misery evident in every curve of their fingers, in the droop of their shoulders, in the bowing of their head, the Drifter has not strayed far from the temple. Walking is still a trial in and of itself, without the aid of their sprite's intuitive movement. Focusing on anything, tracking their vitality, tracking their supplies, placing their location - almost every function has been cut away and reduced and trimmed until there is nothing left, nothing but...this.]

[This thing that can hardly move. That has never not taken action in times of idle silence, and now has been stripped of their capacity to do so.]

[That does not stop them from trying.]

[Even if every step is still an excruciating effort that has them retching up their own blood, even if they cannot walk in a straight line without clinging gamely to walls or trees, they are resolute in their efforts. They have people they must ensure survived the nightmares in the caverns. They have children they must still protect.]

[They have no time to be constrained like this.]

kittu | ota

[souldeterminant]

[They awaken with a start in a sheaf of sunlight.]

[For a few moments, Kittu lies supine in the brown-patched grass, gulping quiet breaths of air -- heavy and warm and fresh, so unlike the stale, dust-tinged air that surfaces in their most recent memory like a thick soup. Everything in them tingles: their head, their back. Their hand.]

[Numbly, Kittu brings their palm in front of their face, blocking the sunlight from their eyes. Their fingers flex; their palm smooth and pale, lacking a line of green crystals, or gritty blood, or even the faint pink of a scar. With a soft exhale, they allow it to drop onto their chest, wincing against the sun as it renews its shine into their gaze.]

[... there's something about this tableau. That sickening sense of vertigo, still clinging to their waking consciousness. A fall -- waking up in the ruins... it all seems so --]

[Do not be afraid, my child.]

[... Kidwun. And Tim.]

[Their looks bolt across Kittu's mind like a flash of lighting, and it's what gets them upright, sweeping their hair back behind their ears with a grim line in their mouth. Ha ha... their twin isn't going to forgive them for this. And they probably shouldn't.]

[But they have to make sure Kidwun is alive to kill them, first.]

[They'll linger around the temple for several minutes, ensuring that no one they recognize are among the revivals -- but that can only hold their attention for so long. Eventually, Kittu takes off towards the islets, intent on returning to their shack in hopes of locating the most familiar faces.]

[And maybe wandering around looking for other ones, too.]

The Batter | OTA

[unpurify]

[It certainly was something to have one's skull punctured by a blade, but the Batter's standards for manner of death were not that high.

It was an inevitability, considering who and what the man was, that death would follow him in some shape or form. The Batter had been the death of his world and his own existence since the day he had been created. Fairly simple. And between his own revival skill and the Jokers, it was not the first time the purifier had been pulled back from the brink of death.

But this time he had been pulled away after dying yet again. Shaken awake from the coma he was meant to be in once his mission was complete. Apparently not, for now. So that meant he had to keep going.

"Continue" wasn't exactly a purpose he knew how to complete, but if it was inescapable then the Batter had to move on.

Keeping the Storyteller's warning of 'side-effects' regarding his revival in mind, the Batter makes his way from the temple, deciding for now to simply go on a walk and stretch his limbs. He will end up at the beach, sitting down in the sand long enough to watch the seemly endless water before him. Feel free to catch him there or anytime before he hits his final destination.]

Closed to Cottage 3: Asriel, Sans, Tibia, Tim, Wade

[achievementhunter]

[If it wasn’t obvious, they don’t particularly want to be here. Chara disappears for an hour when they first arrive back, excusing themself with the reasoning that they’d like to check their things are still- where they should be.

After an hour, perhaps more, they return- lest Sans come to collect them.

Their eyes are red rimmed. If Chara’s aware that the tear tracks are stark against their cheeks, they make no mention of it. Without a word, they collapse onto the mattress offered, curling into a ball. They don’t sleep. They don’t look at anyone. They don’t bother removing their knife from it’s sheath at their hip, or keeping a hand up their sleeve around yet another handle.

They just don’t move at all.

The next day

The next day….

They’re still alive. Sitting in the open doorway as the sun rises. If it rises. Hard to tell, when it’s raining so hard.



But it’s fitting, isn’t it?

It’s fitting.]

[postictal]

[He finds them eventually. And maybe he - shouldn't be surprised, either, that this is where they ended up. After the separation, he'd just had to hope that they wouldn't be trapped down there, wouldn't take the one route available to them. The one way they could think of to go. He can't blame them for that; he'd do the same.]

[If the only person anchoring him here just up and - ]

[Well. No. He is a liar. That'd be false to say, because he didn't take that route either. For reasons beyond the scope of what he was willing to examine at the time, and even now.]

[So where does this leave him now?]

[It leaves the most awkward reunion of lost and straggling souls, or Sols, that he has possibly ever witnessed. The third kid in a string of them, a skeleton and a mercenary whose memories of Tim he knows would turn unfavorable in an instant if they knew the truth of "Kidwun" and his role in how things are now. His role in how things set themselves up in the present moment, up until "Kittu" had made a decision.]

[Everyone's exhausted, tired, hungry, beaten down to their cores. He can step around subjects lightly, and circumstances work to his advantage in that regard. Chara is hardly in a position to care one way or another.]

[For that, he can't exactly blame them.]

[There's enough lingering instinct here, or enough of the people who are genuine in their sympathy for a lost, grieving little kid, for them all to ride it out. For none of them to quite question it, the familiarity. He should hope. He should hope.]

[His lighter spits on-off in a rhythmic jerk of his thumb. Not knowing how to broach the subject. Any of the subjects. Not knowing if he should.]

[justribbing]

[ Sans, like the rest of them, is pretty dirty. They'd just spent days spelunking in a cave full of murderous parasitic crystalline giants, and Sans himself wading through submerged tunnels of water so cold it felt thick, just on the cusp of freezing over.

Which is why, when he returns to the cottage with Wade and a kid in tow -- and another unpleasant and unwelcome surprise in the form of the source of no end to misery -- the first thing Sans does is boil water.

Then he's handing out wads of cloth to Wade, to Kidwun, scraps of cloth that were parts left of a butchered t-shirt, and some of the soap the residents of the cottage had made with water and campfire ash. Mixed with coconut oil, the lye had made more than serviceable soap, if a little astringent.

He's no chemist, but monsters learned how to make a few things with the few resources they had. Soap was pretty easy, and he'd done it with help from--well. It was before they lost half their household.

Back when things were a little less complicated, when Newt was thatching their roof, and Wade and Sans and Clem were putting together three extra rooms spanning out from the original central one. But Newt is gone and so is Clem. Instead there's a grieving child without a sibling, there's a young prince who ruined Sans's life, and Wade...

God, Wade. He's taking it hard.

Besides making them scrub off the dirt with bits of homemade soap and heated water and rags, there's two double beds, complete with sheets and pillows and blankets, and rooms for privacy, albeit they don't exactly have doors yet.

Sans otherwise uses the pot once more, to make a kind of stew of fish and foraged greens, seaweed, and coconut meat. It's vaguely creamy and smells sweeter than it tastes. He ladles out a bowl and approaches the kid who had looked so small when they had been curled up on the bed.


Later, he'll have one to bring to Wade. ]