March Event: De L'autre Côté de L'eau

[lifeaftr_mods]

MARCH EVENT: DE L'AUTRE CÔTÉ DE L'EAU

Who: Everyone condemned to the Water, and those who see fit to rescue them
What: A rescue is implemented!
When:Predominantly on March 19th
Where: Ai'tuoh, and the small islet just off its coast
Warnings: Mark as needed!

Just Sing For Me All Night

It's time for your captured comrades to be recovered, and by none other than your fine selves! While the Storyteller will detail the elements of said rescue below, they very notably don't say anything about how they plan for you make it through Ai'tuoh, and then to the islet off its coast.

You have their tacit blessing to make your way there however you would like. Through stealth, through diplomacy, by salting and burning the earth...whichever you prefer. It is, as it turns out, awfully difficult to discern the innocent from the perpetrators when they all look alike.

Whatever course of action you choose, bear in mind that there will be consequences. The Storyteller will be sealing off Ai'tuoh's mana pool once everyone who has been retrieved has come through, but that doesn't mean that the island will be gone forever.

And If I Shout For You, Never Doubt

While the details of the rescue's mechanics can be found in the Storyteller's explanation below, we ask that, if your character was captured and needs to be rescued, please let us know HERE. This will make it easier for other players to account for who might be their focus, and why!

A few guidelines for each of the groups:

[ ♆ ] Group One will be predominantly busy fending away militia, who you can assume will be pouring forth to protect the Water from these intruders at a fairly concentrated rate. Most of the fighting will likely be grouped around the Water itself, leading to a risk of being forced into the Water or slipping in yourself. The militia largely fight with spears, swords, and shields, but are not above attempting to sedate you if they can get close enough, to make it easier to tip you into the Water.

[ ♆ ] Group Two will be serving as the tether, meaning they will be holding onto the thread the Storyteller has provided. This means physically remaining on our side of the abyss and holding onto the thread very tightly, as well as mentally focusing incredibly hard on the Water itself. When the thread is deposited into the Water, it will open a dark tunnel into the surface itself, leading all the way through to the other side. The Water will not take kindly to this; it will attempt to close, and exert a tremendous mental pressure upon your mind to do so. In order for this portal to remain open, your focus must be wholly devoted to keeping it open. It may feel very much like a mental game of tug-of-war, and you may very well feel a very physical tug on the thread itself as well; you must be actively concentrating on bringing everyone home.

[ ♆ ] Group Three will then have to grab hold of the thread in some way or another and not let go as they're swept into the dimension and through to the other side. As long as they remain in contact with the thread, they will be able to make their way back and be immune to the soporific effects of the strange void, as well as detect the opening the thread makes in the landscape of the netherworld on the other side of the Water. If they let go, they will lose their way and be vulnerable to the somnolent effects, and must be drawn back by someone who is still tethered.

Just remember: once you've found who needs recovering, you cannot, under any circumstances, look back at them while you guide the home.

You simply have to trust that they will follow, and that will be what leads them back to you.

Event Timeline

[ ♆ ] March 19th: Characters are taken to the Standing Water, and the rescue is facilitated
[ ♆ ] March 20th: Monthly Storytelling occurs as usual
[ ♆ ] March 31st: Ai'tuoh disappears, and anyone left on it or in the Water will suffer a death

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( CODED BY BOOTYCALL )

Comments

[lightlessfuture]

[ They tug at the Drifter's hand again, at their leg. Wanting them to sit, to rest, to assess the damage so they can at least stem all the blood coming out because blood belongs inside the body they definitely know that much.

Then, in the stubborn way of a small child, simply clinging to their leg and sitting themselves, butting their horned head gently against the Drifter's shin. (The Drifter could probably lift them, even sick as they are, and keep moving.) ]

[hyperlit]

[Perhaps they would, if they were not so tired. Days kept in isolation, with nothing but the murmur of some anonymous, worried cellmate the next room over and the rank scent of their own blood-tinged sick to keep them company. Now, after being hauled from the inky depths of whatever netherworld lingered beneath, they...]

[The Drifter is tired.]

[Perhaps it's the way they are not so unlike Ren, how desperate they seem to keep them in one place. Perhaps it is that they have no words, no speech, and thus cannot venture anything but the cling to the Drifter's leg to communicate their concern.]

[Either way, it's enough for them to sink to their knees with a nearly inaudible wheeze.]

[lightlessfuture]

[ They let go of their friend once they sit (or, at least, it's something like sitting). Rather than try to speak with them, they take more bandages out from under the cloak with mute insistence, reaching up as far as they can to try and address the injuries they can see.

It's the disregard for injury that worries them more than the Drifter's will to keep moving. It's hard to see worry on a face that shows no expression whatsoever, but their usual firm motions are absent here.

It is clear, through small tremors and uncertain movements, that they don't fully understand what to do, or how to take care of these things. But they try anyway, because they don't know how not to try, because not trying would be unthinkable. ]

[hyperlit]

[Blood sores. Nothing much to be done about them, but the lack of cloth covering has agitated them to a blistering extent. That pain is familiar, and old, and it does not sting any more or less than they are used to. Perhaps, if they acquiesce this much, that will enable them to find their tools faster.]

[They still take a moment, placing one gloved hand atop the smooth dome of the Knight's head in a gentle pat that's perhaps less consoling than it ought to be.]

[The vocabulary of nearly everyone else they have spoken to, when it comes to speech via hands, has been severely limited. But they nonetheless attempt two simple letters:]

OK

[see?? they're fine]

[lightlessfuture]

[ They remember what the Storyteller had told them, and the state of the Drifter now. They could answer with any number of things, even with their limited ability to 'speak', this way.

But the Knight simply stares up at the Drifter for a moment as one hand goes onto their head (again, that strange and affectionate gesture), and then their shoulders droop under the cloak, and they sign back: ]

OK

[ Nothing is 'ok', not really. But even if they did have a voice, no words would make things right.

"Perhaps the infection came from somewhere deep inside of them that they could not escape."

They shake their head to clear it of the unpleasant thought, something they don't want to confront, and try to bandage those sores instead. It can't be good, leaving them exposed, otherwise the Drifter wouldn't be covered up all the time. ]

[hyperlit]

[They understand, then. As much as it is possible for them to understand, though that is, granted, somewhat limited. The Drifter's own capacities for speech are far from exact, particularly now.]

[The most they can do is allow for this - wrapping spools of bandages around the worst of the broken-open pockmarks of bright pink, for whatever little it will be worth.]

[There is no easing that pain. Not completely. Not forever.]

[It is troubling, to see the Knight's demeanor so solemn, so uncertain, so subdued.]

[Eventually, they've a hand free to scratch with one finger in the sand:]

P ACK?

[lightlessfuture]

[ Even if there is little to be done, the Knight feels better for doing it. At the very least, the Drifter seems distressed to bleed so much; that might ease the feeling. They give their friend a little pat of their own (on the arm, this time; they're not remotely tall enough to reach their head).

Instead of answering with words, they ponder the question for a moment before they recall where the Drifter's belongings went, and then sketch something in the grey island sand.

It is, no doubt, a figure the Drifter will find familiar. They draw an arrow from the word to the simple drawing, and tap the ground once, twice, with a little nod. They're certain they saw her rescuing the rest of the Drifter's belongings. ]

[hyperlit]

[That relaxes them slightly, slightly, if only by mild increments. A god. A god who has seen fit to aid them, time and time again - who crawls into their lap and accepts the gentle stroking of her silky fur, who occupies her time with helping even dismal mortals such as they.]

[The shiver to their shoulders as they drop may very well communicate their apparent relief at that. For a moment, they can slit their eyes halfway shut, until they must plant one hand on the ground, palm flat, to keep from simply keeling over on the spot.]

[Good. Good.]

THNk

[That's, ah. As far as they get.]

[lightlessfuture]

[ Not for the first time, they wish they were taller, that they had more use in a situation like this. It's rare that they feel so helpless, but much of what they have learned to do is to fight, in the dark depths of a kingdom that wants them gone.

This world is, perhaps, too large for the likes of them.

They reach up as far as they can, trying to pull the gifted cloak a little more over the Drifter's shoulders. That done, and at a loss, they rest their forehead against the arm that is holding their friend up, holding onto it tightly, as if trying to reinforce it against gravity.

It's the best they can do. Until the Drifter wants to get up. ]

[hyperlit]

[What else can they do? Too exhausted to push on, and deprived of any actionable goal, they’ve nothing else to do but wait. Perhaps the wait would be easier, if they could speak, but the most they manage is the occasional hitch to their throat; the dribble of bright pink slipping down over the stone floor, the trembling of shoulders that cannot sustain their own weight.]

[The Knight should not be clinging to them so, when so much of them is exposed and bleeding, but they’ve neither the strength nor the means to say otherwise.]

[They wait, because that is all that is left to them.]