lifeaftr | July Intro: Upsy-Daisy!

July Intro: Upsy-Daisy!

INTRO LOG: JULY

Who: New arrivals, your lif᷆t̕i͗n᷅ģ f̧̞ͅr̡̦̃ḭ̅ͭe̩᷅̂n̟̣̤d̨̬̏, and you!
What: New souls arrive to the archipelago of LifeAftr, and everyone makes a new friend!
When: July 5th and onward
Where: All over Ensō
Warnings: Mark as needed!

Like a Bat Out of Hell
At this stage, the appearance of new arrivals to Ensō's shores is hardly a surprise to anyone but the arrivals themselves. Whatever mysterious force is responsible seems to have taken a vaguely nostalgic route this month, depositing the new and unconscious across the shoreline of the beach closest to the tumbled stone bastion of the Storyteller's temple. At first, that seems to be all there is to it. The arrivals stir to the smell of salt and the summer sea air, and the cycle of questions, searching, and settling begins.

For about five minutes. Perhaps ten.

Almost like an afterthought, something else shows up, plummeting straight out of the sky and landing with a veritable explosion of water some hundred feet from the shore. A large, rectangular shape breaches the surface after a few moments, bobbing, cork-like, in the foam-crested waves before ever so slowly beginning to sink into those aquamarine depths. For those familiar with such objects, it makes for a rather odd sight. That most certainly was an elevator, or you can be...fairly sure it was?

Give it another minute, and you'll be certain. The elevator streaks out from the ocean like a creature possessed. Maybe, in those split seconds prior to its approach, you'll be able to note the elevator's distinct features: a disturbingly smiling face on its doors, and a set of teeth framing a very organic mouth.

Meet Upsy, your lifting friend.

In case it wasn't obvious by now, Upsy is far from a conventional elevator by any standards. What's more, Upsy has not taken to LifeAftr as well as some others. Armed with the ability to move in any direction, the rogue contraption takes no prisoners - by which we mean, they take as many prisoners as possible. Upsy proceeds to swoop across the shoreline, combing the beach in the most haphazard and patternless path possible, scooping up anyone slow enough to be caught in their maw. Once you're caught up in their jaws, it comes down to the winds of fortune, in regards to wherever Upsy proceeds to spit out their cargo. While the journey itself will be rough and...sticky, it is not inherently dangerous.

Hopefully, the same can be said for wherever you end up Ensō hosts a great deal of predators, environmental hazards, and worse. Though you could always end up belched into the ocean. Hope you can swim!

When the Metal is Hot and the Engine is Hungry
Upsy’s reign of terror isn't restricted to mere adventurers. Those with livestock or animal companions may be in for a small shock or, perhaps more likely, a very large one, when flying elevator sucks up those cuddly critters with a grin and spirits them off into the great unknown.

Though your phoenix, chocobo, or tigerlily may not be where you saw them last, you can at least be assured that they are still on Ensō. All you need to do is round them up. And if this isn't good enough news, well...at least you don't keep bludrocs.

Whether you're out searching for an animal or not, be careful traversing Ensō for the next three days. If Upsy is empty, they'll most certainly snap you up. And if they aren't? You may find anything from birds to horses spat out at you.

The velocity of these organic projectiles tends to vary. Dramatically. Upsy's reign of terror will end on the evening of July 9th. At that point, the elevator will fly off to greener pastures...and our RNG spreadsheet for potential encounters in future. Sweet dreams.

All new arrivals will awake with knapsacks, their names stitched to the front. The contents of said knapsacks can all be found in your acceptance notices!

As a final note to those who participated in the Test Drive Meme, bear in mind that those threads, if all parties involved would like, can be game canon in the form of dream-like memories involving a place very much like this one, though the layout is considerably different.

Feeling a tad adrift? Make sure to check the Locations Page, which has details regarding the starting areas and a handy map for those who feel better with a bird's eye view!

LOGS ● OOC ● STORIES ● MAIN NAVIGATION

( CODED BY BOOTYCALL )

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[What you see can hurt you. This is what they learned, in those first few terrifying days when their symptoms progressed from tolerable to anything but.]

[What they learned was this: the things you see, the shadows in your vision, the snakelike grasp of a perfect Cell's reaching tendrils, they are not real. But they hurt and pierce as though they were, and wake you up with your breath fogging your throat, retching pink and reeling.]

[They still remember the first time Judgment impaled them on the spikes of its creation, the sensation of their oily blackness sliding down through their lungs and pinching the angry trench of their spine.]

[Their gaze locks onto a point just above Guzma's head, and to the left: a glaring eye leaking pink fumes, looming and ready to tear his head from his spine. They remember how it felt, you see. They remember every moment of tearing fabric and ripping skin and rupturing muscle, until the pendulumic weight of the rattail of their spinal column was ripped free.]

[They charge, their blade a cyan whirlwind, to rush for the thing behind him.]

[He barely has a chance to react, they're too close. Even if he moved now, a part of him would still get cut or grazed, and that whirring, blue blade doesn't seem like it'd only leave a scratch. Guzma sucks in his breath, not sure what to do other than brace for it - wait for that blade with cleave a deep gash in his body and for the blackness of death to take him.

That doesn't happen, however, because despite her trainer's orders, Ariados disobeys. A line of her thick, sturdy, sticky thread is shot from her mouth to try and encase the Drifter's arm - the one holding the blade. If it sticks, she'll yank back the restraint to keep that sword out of range of her trainer, struggling on all her legs to keep steady. Her hiss is almost feral, venom dripping from her fangs. She won't use her poison thread, not yet, but if he threatens Guzma again, she very well may use her more lethal attacks.]

[They should have anticipated it, the cling of something snapping tight around their arms. Judgment's grasp is inescapable, and they immediately spin to try and cleave the offending trap away. They will not allow it to take him - not him, who has been unceasingly kind, who has been consistently accommodating despite their every flaw, their every error, the mistakes they have made and continue to make and are making right now - ]

[They will cut themself free, if they must, to save him from it.]

[Guzma curses loudly, not sure what t do at this point. He hates this, hates what his mind is telling him to do - I don't want to do this - he screams again and again, but there's really nothing more he can do. His friend is dangerous right now, with the illusions driven into their skull with the godawful plant's spores feeding the fevered nightmare. Guzma can't risk his pokemon getting hurt with that blade, nor himself...and neither his friend as well.]

Sorry, bro...

[He bites his lip, grits his teeth, and curses to himself. When the Drifter rounds, trying to free themselves, he clasps his hands together and raises his arms up, bringing the fists down on the poor Drifter's skull with every ounce of strength in those large arms. He's hoping this will be enough to knock them out. If Guzma can get them away from the lungblossom, let them have their nightmare in peace....let it run its course, and remove their weapons, then it should be--

Not better, but good enough.]

[Perhaps, if they were not already caught up in the tangle of Judgment's threads, they would have seen it coming. They would have known, and reacted accordingly, a lightning-tick of reflexes polished by years of knowing that a wrong step or a too-slow realization in battle would lay them out to join the dead and dying.]

[The blow crashes across the top of their head with an impact that leaves their skull ringing beneath their helmet, sends them half-crashing to the ground, only just managing to catch themself with their knees. One hand hooks up against their chest, pressing down.]

[Powdered stars erupt behind closed lids. They can taste it: the sluice of their own blood wet against the roof of their mouth. They cannot stop. They cannot stop. Judgment still has them, and Guzma is not free, and they struggle, still, they struggle, partially collapsed as they are, straining to keep - alive.]

[But their thoughts pound in their skull like an almighty drumbeat, and they were never very strong.]

[When they go down, Guzma waits just long enough to see how they move, before he approaches. It's enough dizziness to wager a careful approach, and with a nod to Ariados, she fired a stream of her more poisonous thread at the lungblossom - a thick glob not from her mouth, but her abdomen. That should do some work to the damned plant once it starts to really take effect. Poison was always super effective against plants and grass-type pokemon. Hopefully the same principle works here...

Meanwhile, Guzma goes to pick up the Drifter, leaning down to tug them up up and support them on his shoulder. He mutters a quiet apology, again, and tries to pull them outside of the radius of that awful plant. Hopefully they're dizzy enough that no more fighting will be necessary - it's the one time Guzma doesn't want to battle someone, or beat them into submission. Not a friend, nor a brother.]

Let's...get you someplace safe, my guy.

[They move weakly, attempting to push away, attempting to fight back. The grip is gentle, like the Guardian's careful lift of their bedraggled, bloodstained, fever-wracked shape as it lay there shivering in the ground with the memory of Judgment's talons hooked into their chest and ripping out their heart. But they cannot take that chance, they - ]

[The rivulets of pink are already staining their mantle; leaking down past it, to drip at the ground beneath their feet. Dazed, still struggling, and they can do nothing but be towed meekly along.]

[They can still see it: scintillating and immeasurable, the glare of that pink-crested rhombus of an eye set in the center of its dark, creeping mass.]

[A ragged noise scrapes at their throat. Their hands scrabble at him, feebly, in an attempt to pull away.]

[His grip is strong, stronger when he feels the Drifter try to pull away, try to struggle, and he moves them farther and farther from the lungblossom. He hates having to be the one to drag them like this, to be the cause of the pink that trickles down their mantle. He takes note of it all, and each one is a drag of nails against his back - a hard lash that he knows he deserves. Guzma didn't want to do it, he really didn't, but he simply doesn't know any other way than to beat people down...until they crumble. Until they submit.

It's what he does best.

He can hear the hissing crackle of his spider pokemon's poison finally kicking in as the leaves and stem of the lungblossom quiver and crack, shriveling up as the poison eats away at it, burning the leaves and horrid plant to a brown-black coloration. One less of them to worry about...he only prays the poison reaches the roots, so it will never grow again. Never threaten his friends again.]

Not yet, D. You can hate me all y'want, but not just yet, okay? [He has to find a place safe for them to rest a while, before making their journey back home.]

[That's the twisted bottom line, isn't it? They are fast, incredibly so, agility and speed packed into a crimson blur, but once they're ensnared in the grip of something stronger, that is when it is all over. Their sole strength is in their ability to avoid that which might pin them.]

[Judgment skewered them on the spot. Ripped off their head. Pulped their ribs to jelly beneath the weight of leaking black. Tore them to pieces long before the Drifter put their blade through its pink-dripped skull so why does it still loom and tear and howl at them as though they'd never dethroned it at all?]

[Perhaps, if they'd the wherewithal to attempt to communicate, they might have clarified what it is they're seeing.]

[But that is not their instinct, in the heat of combat. Even if it is no longer combat, at this point; merely the Dirfter, struggling ineffectually against someone else's superior grip.]

[It'll take a while longer, but Guzma's sure the distance they made is far enough from danger, and he sets the Drifter down in a shady area gently, fishing out a water-can (best investment to those greedy elves yet) from his pack and all but shoving it into his friend's hands. He has no idea how to combat the effects of those awful plants, but getting water and rest shouldn't not help, right? It's worth a shot. Besides, they probably need to clean out their mouth.

Guzma doesn't exactly pull his punches, and the spots marring their mantle didn't go unnoticed. Water will at least get the acrid taste of their blood away. If only he were smarter...had more resources...maybe there'd be a way to reverse the effects of those spores, or come up with an antidote or countermeasure, or...something.]

Take it easy, homie...you're alright, now. [Gently, voice soft and peaceful. It's perhaps the calmest and gentlest he's ever been - reserved only for people of utmost importance.]

[They go from one point to the next with no means to tracking the space in between; one moment, they're still straining to peel themself away from a foreign grip, and the next - the next, they're on the ground. It's like the sickening rush of nausea and the hours lost keeled over in the dirt.]

[Because it is familiar, it is easier to handle. What is less familiar is the sensation of something being pushed into their hands. The contours of its shape gradually give way to identification: a watering can.]

[There's a murky film over the silhouette that continues to speak, but it looks...less like Judgment. But then, the Cell could always warp its intentions behind a shifting shroud.]

[They cannot organize their thoughts enough to speak, but they can point - at him, at the vague blur that is whoever is currently speaking to them, and squint somewhat accusingly.]

[Guzma shifts into a squatting position nearby, well out of the Drifter's arm's reach, and that of their blade. He's still well aware they also have a gun, but confident enough that even if they attempted to shoot, the bullet would miss him entirely, or he'd have enough reaction time to dodge. It's really the accusatory look that makes his feel sick with guilt, really. He had no real choice, there was nothing else he could think of doing to help them.

But, he tries to at least give them some clarity. Who the hell knows what his friend is even seeing under the illusion of the lungblossom's spores? It takes him a moment, Guzma hasn't practiced his sign language in a very, very long time, but he still manages to spell out 'F-R-I-E-N-D' and 'S-A-F-E' with his hands. Hopefully they have enough will to see the shape of his hands, and enough mind to remember the letters.]

[These hallucinations don't act the way they ought to. They move slower, more deliberately - they take great pains to speak in ways the Drifter can understand, even if it is slow, sloppy, and they do not catch every letter.]

[Their head still aches like a struck gong, but the stars are fading.]

[Make the shape of words with their hands:]

JUDGMENT?

[Guzma shakes his head, out of sheer habit. Judgement? Haha, not today, my friend, though you certainly came close. That godawful plant it definitely one to present itself as such. His smile is a bit crooked and there's an airy chuckles that escapes his chest as he spells again, with his hands - 'GUZMA'.]

Don't think too hard, homie, y'all got clobbered pretty good. [He, uh...he'll apologize for that in a little bit. But he does push the canteen more towards them. That'll help flush out the hallucinogenic spores. Or, at least he hopes it should, slowly. It can't hurt.]

YOU
SICK?

[Did they get you? Did they reach you? They saw it - those tendrils twining around his wrists, reaching toward him, ready to creep down his throat and squeeze, poison him the way it poisoned the world.]

[He should not be dying the way they are. He should never contend with that - the terminal jag in one's guts, the sluice of blood washing out from throat to floor.]

[That question actually makes Guzma pause for a moment, hesitating. Normally, he'd have no issue saying he's 'messed up' - it's the truth, and he's known it for a very long time - but he doesn't think this warrants a trip down that particular topic of conversation. Though he does mumble something quietly to himself, out of earshot--] Sick in the head, yeah.

[Taking a deep breath, Guzma shakes his head no. He's not sick. Not in the way they probably mean. And he didn't inhale any of those awful spores, either.]

[Their head is still ringing - they don't catch what he says, only that he says something beyond the range of their current earshot. And yet, they do not question it. What is worth questioning?]

[What indeed, aside from the obvious:]

DID NOT SEE IT?

[Guzme tilts his head to one side curiously before shaking his head. It takes him another moment to remember that hallucinations aren't exactly, uh...things everyone can see, and they're probably very different for everyone, depending on various circumstances. So, before he blurts out "see what", Guzma clears his throats and spells out again--]

FLOWER
IS
BAD.

[He frowns, watching his hands and trying to remember all the letters and hand shapes. Lord, he's so bad at this...]

MAKES
ILLUSIONS.

[...they lost their mind.]

[They lost it in illusion. They let Judgment make the call, and they allowed - no. They nearly - no.]

[They don't dwell. They stop dwelling. They cannot change it now, and so it does not matter, and so they focus instead, instead on Guzma, on his wavering silhouette.]

SO CAN SICKNESS

[And they slump back on the spot, shoulders quivering. In short, they should have known better. They should have known better.]

[Guzma exhales, rubbing his face bleakly. He's not unaware the Drifter is sick - deathly so - but he's sort of numbed himself to the fact of it. Had to cull the feeling and the knowledge that his friend might come back with a missing piece, because of what he has to deal with already. If anything though, he want them to know one thing.]

Y'know, I don't blame you, bro. [He speaks slowly, calmly, hoping them can understand now that time has passed.]

[The words come through muffled and faint, but they crack the patina of their unrest nonetheless. The longer they huddle here, the clearer their head becomes, over time.]

[The Drifter huffs a rasp of breath. Not quite a cough, but the closest they can get to a scoff, to the deprecation as to their foolish choice.]

SHOULD HAVE KNOWN BETTER
SEEN THINGS BEFORE

[They have perished at the jaws of Judgment, hallucinatory or not, and suffered immeasurably because of it, and that - that is not what bothers them. What bothers them is that they nearly turned their blade onto a friend because of it. Because Judgment still rules their head, even here.]

[Because they are never free of the Cell's grasp, no matter how they struggle and scrap.]

[Guzma's laugh is more a hoarse snort, and he shakes his head with a dry smirk on his face. Come on, homeboy, he's not here to let you drag yourself through the mud. Guzma didn't drag you out of that situation just for you to feel down on yourself. He claps a firm hand on the Drifter's shoulder and grips it firmly.]

Listen, D, just cuz you used to seeing things in your head don't make actually seeing 'em any better or worse. Y'all is allowed to make mistakes, yeah? [He gently pushes them back, release their shoulder.] So quit tryin'a blame yourself or I might have to sock you again.

[A gentle application of pressure, a hand against their shoulder. It's more grounding than those sorts of brief touches tend to be.]

[Their head half-bows regardless; it seems foolish to go to the trouble to write SORRY into the dirt, particularly after he has insisted they stop apologizing. So instead they write something else.]

THANK YOU
FOR GETTING ME OUT

[That's definitely better than another apology, and Guzma's mouth turns up into a tiny half smile, waving his hand a bit. This one's always so formal... When're they going to fully realize that Guzma's got their back?]

Don't sweat it. Y'all would do the same for me, yeah? That's what bros just do for each other. [He crosses his arms and leans back a little on his heels, still remaining upright despite having been squatting for a good while now. Them legs muscles are stronk.] You feeling up to getting outta here? Gotta be close...ish to the mountain ruins, yeah? There's a mana pool there we can zap back with.

[Despite the fact that they should probably not be moving around just now, the Drifter nods. Hands braced against the earth, they start to get their legs underneath them. The movement is still vertigo-inducing, slight as it is, but they simply shut their eyes and straighten up slowly despite the throbbing pressing against their temples.]

[It's likely obvious that they definitely shouldn't be walking. But that has never stopped them before.]

[Their sprite blinks faintly. Fresh text inputted, experimentally:]

ok

July Intro: Upsy-Daisy!

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