lifeaftr | June Aftermath: Magic Lantern Strange

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June Aftermath: Magic Lantern Strange

JUNE AFTERMATH: MAGIC LANTERN STRANGE

Who: Everyone!
What: A celebration!
When: Evening of June 21st, and well into morning
Where: Ensō, E3 and E4
Warnings: Mark as needed!

Slide the Light Off You
As promised, the evening of the 21st finds the Jormun hosting a party on Ensō's largest beachfront. Near immediately, it should be clear that they've spared absolutely no expense when it comes to showing their story-walker brethren a good time.

Of course, they may also be...showing off a little.

The stalls and comfortable seating supplied around multiple firepits appears to be a mishmash of Jormun built contraptions and items requested from the Storyteller- many may be delighted to see the variety of beach cushions and blankets, items the Jormun will be happy to let their story-walker friends take home at the end of the festivities. A veritable smorgasbord of food and drink is also readily available, from the kid-friendly options of brrshavak (a spicy drink with a taste akin to liquified chili pepper) and molkavarr (a rich chocolaty broth) to the alcoholic rakvrhak (a rich wine that tastes oddly plumlike). Do be warned, however, that the last is incredibly potent.

Large slabs of driftwood have been laid out to form impromptu tables, bristling with the Jormun's culinary expertise: fried squid, seaweed wraps, spicy pickled kelp, kebabs of roasted eel, hard-boiled snapling eggs, and so on. The vegetables and meats of the sea have been laid out for all to enjoy, so tuck in!

Throughout the evening the air will be filled with the sound of music, with multiple Jormun eager to show off their skill in instrumentation. Conch-shell horns, carved driftwood flutes, urchin-needle harps, and countless more contraptions engineered by a deep sea-dwelling people fill the air with the most peculiar but nonetheless not unpleasant sound. Most of the bands will be set up in the shallow waters, however, as their instruments are not made to be used in open air - try playing them above the surface of the water at your own risk.

Of course, there's plenty more to entertain even the most difficult of people.

You're Living the Strobe Light
Those interested in proving their strength and skill will be encouraged to enter one of the many tournaments across the shoreline. The tournaments vary, featuring such challenges as play fights with the schlacknorkcvic to prove who is the greatest warrior, timed events to see who can stay on a bucking tigershark for the longest, and even a tourney of brovonkosshk, a board game somewhat similar to chess. Don't see anything you're interested in? Make your own. If you can think it, the Jormun will happily accommodate it - impromptu challenges are the highlight of such evenings, after all, though the Jormun won't be taking any responsibility for the first poor soul that decides to usher in a drinking contest.

A small variety of walker games are also available. Jormun children are more than eager to play such games as hide-and-seek or red light, green light, while Connor Murphy will be bringing his Cards Against Humanity deck, for those ready to completely screw with the idea of a fourth wall. There's even a game of Spin the Bottle... except the bottle is being spun overhead like a mace. Being hit by said bottle requires you to do a stupidly ridiculous task, so perhaps it's best to avoid that particular adaptation...

And of course, there's the lightshow.

As mentioned previously, the main show of the evening is the show of brssticca: bursts of magical light beneath the water that will put any fireworks show to shame. The lights are safe to wade and swim through, do keep in mind that the phosphorescent algae tends to cling to the skin. And should you reach into those spiraling, fluorescent nebulae of patterns beneath the surface, some of the configurations of light may abruptly shatter like broken glass.

Additionally, skilled Jormun will be happy to assist those who care to dress up for the event with intricate applications of shellivthiss - a style of waterproof body paint that is not only bright, but luminescent. Something the Jormun may forget to mention, however, is how similar shellivthiss is to henna; should you decide to get all dolled up, except to shine bright light a diamond for weeks to come.

Lastly, those who wanted to bring their own adventures are welcome to as well! Supplying some dope roast? Bringing those sweet, sweet greens? Have some alcohol to supply? All is welcomed by the Jormun - and undoubtedly, your fellow adventurers as well.

You May Find Some Peace
Feeling a tad adrift? Make sure to check the OOC Event Post, which has details regarding the event timeline!

LOGS ● OOC ● STORIES ● MAIN NAVIGATION

( CODED BY BOOTYCALL )

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ The Knight doesn't clearly understand it, no. They might never really be able to; the closest they could possibly get was the idea of a natural enemy, something that by opposing natures were anathema to each other. Light and void, at odds because that was how they were made. That was simply how it was.

Bugs had their own ideas about outsiders, of course. But it was...more visceral, often to do with diets and hunting habits, and so not the same at all.

They are not sure how to respond. That brief flare of anger is already cooling. The past is the past; the Drifter has their own situation that they find normal, acceptable, where the Knight is at odds with it.

They don't want to move past this part of the conversation quite yet, but it takes a while for a response to come.

can make something for them

memorial

if you want

Grief is important. Acknowledging the dead is important, especially if they were precious to you. ]

[For a moment, they are tempted.]

[Only for a moment.]

[No one here has really met them. Even those who stepped into the perfect reality their mind had created hadn't really met them. There was little more than the mere ghost of their presence, the echo of what they had meant - a house, as solemn and bereft as it had been that final day they had advanced into the southern wastes.]

[As though the Guardian had known that they would not be returning to it.]

they have people to remember them
at home

[The Drifter is the one that would sooner be forgotten.]

[ The Knight makes a little frustrated shake of their head, as if some meaning isn't getting across. They remember - the ghosts of warriors past. A lonely, plaintive performance from an abandoned stage. The cries of the dead transformed into power - hear me, avenge me, free me. The solemn air of the resting grounds.

It had meant something. All of that had meant something. The dead needed little; graves, memorials, those elaborate things, were meant for the living. To remember.

you can honor them here

as well

remembering for yourself

as well as another

Sometimes they wonder if the Drifter knows just how much of a mark they have left on the Knight already. Perhaps not; they don't seem to ascribe much presence to themselves at all. ]

they were never here

[That had been the...the purpose of such a garden, hadn't it? Remembering those that came and left, that echoed and departed. Friends in some respects. Mere acquaintances in others. Adventurers who braved foreign lands with unfamiliar comrades, purely because that was something that needed doing.]

[What right would they have to take up valuable space to mourn someone that no one here, save the Drifter, has ever really met?]

[No one here has even really seen them. Just - memories. Shadows.]

[One should never be a mere shadow.]

[ The Knight thinks for a long moment, trying to put what they mean into a form their friend might understand.

you remember them

so they are here

They lean forward, placing their hand on the Drifter's head in an almost comical imitation of what the Drifter had done for them, once. It's a light touch, and then they withdraw.

It is something they feel more keenly than they can coherently explain. They were gifted another's rage, surged with the power of a void united. So many ghosts, so many memories, carried within them. All things want to be remembered.

Do they need permission, somehow?

OK

to mourn

They don't know the exact circumstances. They don't want to press too much. But if the Drifter was so affected, surely it's all right.

(It is a strange contrast, to have this joyful revelry around them both, while they communicate about something much heavier.)

the dead like it

when they are remembered

And that's a tad creepy but ok child you do you. ]

[They are not an articulate creature. Not by nature and not by choice. They speak in action, the hum of a hard light blade and the spatter of blood and slick in an opened wound, the rapid pressure of fingers on the trigger of a hypo releasing a chemical dose of momentary ease.]

[What use is dwelling?]

[The Drifter blinks. A smooth hand slides off the top of their helm before they can truly process it.]

[Perhaps it is fair to mourn, but that has never been their intention way. Buried Time was paved with corpses, both drifter and otherwise, many gone unclaimed or unnoticed or simply - unknown.]

[The Drifter lowers their gaze to stare at the sand, colored deep teal in the dimming half-light. What does it mean, that the dead like it? Is that not he point? That they are dead]

i do remember
i do as they did for me
an act of kindness carried out

this is how i remember

[ The Knight stares for a moment, and then - nods. They can understand that, at least, and they're not sure if they could put into words why they feel it's so important.

Perhaps it is just another difference between them, one they can't bridge - not yet. But that isn't a bad thing.

They do notice the Drifter's staring at their most recent words. They're not entirely sure why (being able to see the dead, to listen to their voices, is something they grew accustomed to), but it's only fair that their friend get to ask too.

have question ?

can ask

This is the longest they've 'talked' to another, really. In a way, they're hungry for it in the way of someone filling a gap they didn't realise they had. ]

[They have many questions, if they were ever the sort to take the time to ask them: why being the prevalent cornerstone. Why did the jackal god choose them, of all drifters? Why not choose the Guardian, whose heart was larger than their lifespan could accommodate, who had lost so much and yet still saw fit to pick up a dying, blue-skinned creature off the ground and offer them a room, a home, a chance to recover? Why push them to that end when there was no saving them? Why grant them that final vision, if it was one?]

[A great deal questions go...unasked. If the answer has not presented itself to them, then they do not pursue it. It is not their duty to do so, and so - they do not. The learn things about the history of others, piece together the broken things that old civilizations long fallen once committed to monoliths and tablets and libraries, and learn what they can of those that can no longer speak for themselves.]

[So now that it's been proposed to them - where do they even begin?]

[They begin with someone else.]

tell me about you?

[ About themselves - that, too, is a question the Knight has never bothered to ask. They are a ghost, a vessel, someone's friend, someone's rival. A student, someone who has proved their worth. A small creature with the weight of a kingdom's past on their shoulders. Always defined by others.

The answer takes a while to come, because they are not sure what it means, to talk about themselves. The Drifter knows they are a vessel already, a little of their past; they need not repeat it. But they are mostly...accomplishments.

have fought many others

have helped many

have seen many things . fought in dreams . seen many ghosts

no name

They are slow to write. This isn't someone used to actually being asked about themselves.

...

good

listener ? It's almost comical how hard they're clearly having to think about this. ]

[They speak in vague terms. Fought many. Helped many. Seen many. It's possible they simply don't have the vocabulary to describe them at length. Good listener, they write - probably because, without a means of responding, no one could reprimand them for attempting to interject.]

[One thing arrests their attention. They tilt their head to one side, considering the words. Considering their earlier pronouncement, as though the dead are concerned over how the living might perceive them.]

[The dead have never been accessible to the Drifter. There was no afterlife they were aware of, nor was it particularly a topic they concerned themself over. It was simply...life, and then the absence of it.]

ghosts?

[ At this point the Knight is simply too - impatient, in a way, to explain. They could give names, but those names wouldn't hold the same meaning. They would all require context. And some are--heavier, than others.

They are finding that there is much to think about, and they need time to do it in. So later, they think. Later, they will be better. Later, they will find the words, because suddenly they have that perception, that desire to share.

They will tell more stories, about the place they came from. Someday.

But for now, they'll speak of ghosts.

yes

dreams maybe

some died long ago

others infected that i killed

all wanted something

want to be worthy

to not be sick

or lonely

Some had been - accepting, of what they represented. Others were almost fearful. (Some they had left alone.) Some had...

some of them

did not know they died

i put them to rest

helped them sleep

They were the void in miniature. A place where no light could reach. An escape from a sickness that burned them from inside and plagued their dreams.

They had taken those ghosts into themselves, let them sleep at last. ]

you said the dead like it when they are remembered

[Does putting them to rest...does that help, then? It sounds like it would be the opposite. But that's not what truly gives them pause, because then they add, a moment later:]

why did you

[The pros of communicating almost purely via text: a complete neutrality of tone, which is precisely what they intend to express. No judgment. No fear. No uncertainty. Simply an even-keeled curiosity.]

[Why would someone, who already carries the weight of death siblings and an unceasing infection and a tired kingdom, seek to give the due to the dead - the dead who already seemed to be mere echoes of who they were?]

[ The Knight nods in immediate response to that first bit.

want to be heard, they scratch into the sand.

As for why, that answer takes a little longer. Because they were curious, perhaps. Or because they were seeking a challenge. Or simply because they stumbled into it, on accident, and kept doing so, because Hallownest is filled with the dead and their dreams. None of those things are strictly wrong.

But the answer that is closest to them, the most honest, is...

wanted to listen

must be lonely

with nobody there for so long

without help = do the same things over and over

hurt forever

sick forever

It comes back to loneliness, something that the Knight themselves feels keenly. Being trapped in an endless pattern, unable to be free. Like their broken siblings, like the Nailsmith endlessly forging, like Sly and Bretta trapped in their own memories. Even the living were not immune to it. ]

[It was not, strictly speaking, their job - perhaps in the same way that curing the world of a seeping, ancient illness was not either of their jobs. They had their reasons to pursue that plague and cut it out at the roots, and so they did so. Not merely because they saw the pain and injustice in it, but because there was a reason to attempt to mend it.]

[Perhaps the Knight is a little like the Guardian, in that regard.]

[One who sees those who suffer like them, and cannot help but...do something about it. Perhaps, given their hesitation, it did not occur to them not to.]

you are like them
you see others and help them

[They don't...necessarily specify who "they" might be.]

[Perhaps they think it obvious, or perhaps they wish to say it more indirectly.]

[ It would be accurate to say the Knight doesn't really understand the concept of not doing. There is only action, and what comes after that. Seek out memories, seek out charms, seek out things hidden or long-abandoned. Seek those who are lost, rescue those who are found. Survive, and complete that task long-buried.

They think they understand what the Drifter is trying to say, but...

like you
too

The Drifter has indulged them, time and time again. Has risked themselves when they easily could not. In many respects, they have much more to lose than the Knight does - have already lost more (the Knight cannot lose what they never had, only what could have been).

They see no reason why they should not take the opportunity to acknowledge that kind of bravery. ]

no
not like me

[They are not good enough at their job for that. They do not seek to mend the world because of some fundamental intent to make things right. They are not righteous enough for that. Their motives were selfish and self-serving, to the point where they understand full well, that if their roles were reversed - if the Guardian had needed their aid instead - they would not have been so kind.]

[It would not have occurred to them to try.]

[ The Knight tilts their head in clear confusion, not sure whether to ask. Not sure how, or where to find the words.

don't understand

but

even though different, still good

That...works. Probably. They watch their friend carefully, attempting to glean something from it.

(The Drifter is brittle and sharp, sometimes, but in the way Hornet is. In the course of their life, something had erased what little soft edges there were, had worn them down into points.

They are surprised at the realisation, then -- sad. Hornet had lost much, though they're not so quick as to assign all her traits to such things - it was simply how she was. The Drifter, too, must have lost much.

And perhaps that was how they were. And that was all right.) ]

[Not like the Drifter, who is still learning how to be kind the way the Guardian was kind - with unreserved and unashamed impulse and the seamless ability to look at what needs doing and then do it. Their means of help is the swing of a blade in battle, the height of too many debts stacking into each other, and little else.]

[It is not really help. Is doing what they always do, to a different end.]

[They trace one slightly pointed finger along the edge of their mantle, worrying the worn fabric.]

it is what i am trying to be

[And so that is how the Guardian is remembered.]

[ The Knight is...somewhat unfamiliar with this sort of thing. Everyone they had met had already been defined in some way - though, some had chosen something different for their lives, tiring of their previous task. Perhaps it was like that. A different mask, or a different shell.

Changing was always difficult. So instead they nod, and just sort of. Place a hand on the Drifter's helm again, an imitation of a previous gesture (because they feel the need to be more careful with hugging someone when they could definitely knock them over now).

Headpat.

This is...reassuring, right?? They follow it up with some clumsy signing. ]

DOING-GOOD

[ The Knight may not know much beyond combat, but they do know that many thrive on being heard, having their efforts acknowledged. This is just...more of that, to them.

They have never really needed it, but they have no problems giving it to the Drifter. ]

[It does not feel very much like they are, really. But then, they haven't gotten very far. They haven't had much time to learn to be...better. Be the way that they were once treated.]

[The Knight is, perhaps, merely attempting to be polite. Or their threshold for what counts as "kind" is so very low that it does not terribly matter to them, if one is not very good at it. The Drifter does not have a home, and resources, and a bed to share.]

[The most they have is the language of hands. A packet of candy. A story about a dying, ancient world.]

perhaps

[That is all they can do - because better implies that they have a future that they can visualize, that they can trust will last for longer than a day.]

[The most they can be, the absolute most, is to be...kind, in one moment, and hope that will be enough.]

[ In a dead world, it is the trying that matters. That is what the Knight might say, perhaps, if they knew the Drifter's internal thoughts. A flower delivered to a grave for the peace of those long dead. A moment of reflection in a ruined kingdom. A request to be left alone at another's bedside.

But they don't know such thoughts, and so it's something that goes unspoken. They tilt their head again at the Drifter's noncommittal answer, clearly puzzled by it, but they don't ask for clarification.

They glance over to something that had clearly interested them earlier, and then, with a little motion for the Drifter to stay and wait, they get up and leave. They're back soon enough, with a brush and a pot of glowing paint, and they put it down to sign. ]

CAN-PAINT

IF-YOU-WANT

[ Whether they mean the Drifter can paint them, or that they want to paint their friend, is ambiguous. Possibly on purpose. It's fine to them, either way. It's the sharing of the activity that matters. ]

[Paint.]

[It is bright, luminous, like the spray of pink out across the grass; a blaze of colors that assures them more than anything else that the world is dangerous, that something is wrong, that something is...askew.]

[It is not the same, here. It's just paint. Luminescent patterns to be drawn on the skin, or on the clothing.]

[Not the Drifter's skin, at least.]

what do you like to paint

MANY-THINGS

[ That's a little too vague, they know. They sort of struggle visibly with attempting to sign the words, and then they resort to writing again.

paint in own language

symbols that tell stories

A declaration of accomplishment, of memory. Always about memory, with this one. But more importantly, they are keeping their language here, symbols and sigils that nobody understands but them. Patterns they have drawn time and time again.

It is about sharing what they know with another, too. ]

show me?

[You thought you were going to get out of talking about yourself? Oh, no. No, no. Just because there's no actual talking doesn't mean it's not going to happen, and it is going to happen.]

[The Drifter wants to know the Knight's language. Even if it is just sketching on the dirt, or symbols that tell stories - it's better than meeting halfway. Perhaps it is a leftover instinct they do not have nearly enough times to act upon: the desire, the innate curiosity, to regard other histories and glean what they can.]

[They'd like to know.]

[ They seem - surprised. Again, that hesitation that comes from acknowledging a question that they've never been asked before.

But the hesitation only lasts a moment. They take the brush, and instead of using it to paint they turn it so they can draw with the handle.

They draw symbols in the sand; a small cluster of domed structures is 'home', or 'town', or simply 'others'. An oval with two lines is a representative of currency. A symbol of a horned creature is the sign for 'stag station' (they stop to explain what a stag is - some kind of transport, bugs who make their living traveling tunnels and carrying passengers, apparently). A four pronged crown is the sign for 'king'. Or possibly 'wyrm'. Possibly both.

Then they arrange them into what appear to be actual sentences, or as close as it gets. The language the Knight writes in goes in circles, curved patterns of symbols and designs with no clear beginning or end. Designs that are both decorative and informative.

They translate it into something the Drifter can understand as best they can, but it explains a little of why the Knight themselves has a somewhat patchy vocabulary. Symbols change their meaning and importance based on what they are juxtaposed with, and where their position is on the design. It's something they struggle to translate. ]

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