lifeaftr | November Intro: We Used to Think Our Words Were Gold

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November Intro: We Used to Think Our Words Were Gold

INTRO LOG: NOVEMBER

Who: New arrivals, and you!
What: New souls arrive to the archipelago of LifeAftr
When: November 4th and onward
Where: Ensō
Warnings: Mark as needed!

Temple: We Built These Walls So We Could Find
With the Storyteller once again regaining control of Mu in the final week of October, the disturbing bleedover of characters' pasts and futures has come to an end; but, as it would seem, some alternative effects have merely been delayed.

The Chamber of Glyphs, which had held steadfast as a link between the physical and metaphysical worlds during last month's event, has finally bent beneath the strain - and, perhaps, due to the Storyteller's increased exertion over both planes. The Chamber, which typically represents a myriad of drawings intended to tell stories, has abruptly become much less tell...and much more show.

Newcomers will open their eyes to a high stone ceiling, punched through with beams of sunlight. Massive stone walls span them on four sides, upon which are endless murals drawn in chalk, depicting island life: a village gathered around a table, feasting; hunters with their bows drawn, chasing down a wild boar; warriors with swords slashing at enormous vipers. Any imaginable tale of wilderness survival adorns the walls, pitching and shifting, almost seeming to animate...

Right out of the walls, in fact.

Indeed, the drawings in the Chamber have come to life, bringing the chaos of their story into the room itself. And they seem quite determined to make your character a part of it. Though startingly lifelike, their features always seem to be fuzzy and indistinct, and their voices a bit too warbled to make out. Whether it be the taste of bitter ink in your mouth when you bite into an apple, or the feel of chalk dust on your fingers as you grip a weapon handed to you, there is a persistent sense of immaterialism in these ghost-drawings and the world they fill the gray corners of the Chamber with. Regardless, they all very much believe that you are a part of the feast, or the hunt, or the battle, or whatever other tale has leapt from the walls. And you are expected to participate.

Of course, any theoretical danger probably isn't real...but do you really want to risk it? After all, it isn't only mundane tales of the faceless that reside here - your fellow survivors, too, have added their much wilder stories to this world. Surely the Chamber would recognize them if they were to be nearby...and remember their contributions.

And Beyond: A Future We Will Never Write
Of course, there are other aberrations throughout the temple to contend with. For newcomers, the major issue appears to be the lack of a front door, while those who have come to visit the temple for any number of reasons will find the front door isn't quite leading to where it should; nor does it seem keen on sticking in one place. The only room within the building that any character will be able to reach is the Chamber of Glyphs itself - but actually escaping the temple may seem a difficult task.

The temple's interior does not help in keeping one's bearings. Though pillars, empty shelves, and even the outline of windows can still be seen throughout the imagery, they appear of have been superimposed into much wider areas of space - the arid, vast wastelands of Monsun. The ash-powdered lands of Chol, still scorched black from the rebirthing of the sun. Even Ai'tuoh, though its streets seem devoid of any life.

Though the eye may believe they have returned to the entirety of the island, other senses may confound and befuddle. Each step is still taken on level stone, the only sounds those of your shoes upon the floor - and the voices of anyone stuck inside with you. Venturing about will prove that these illusions do have a limitation, ending a few miles at most, though the unlucky could easily find themselves exiting one door...and entering a new island room. Exploration could potentially continue on indefinitely - or at the least, until the Storyteller wrangles their temple back into order early the next morning.

Be careful, adventurers. Though cycling through islands you have seen before - the very subject of your stories - there is a chance that those who go too deep will come across a land that is very familiar to some. Twisted remnants of something terrible, heavy with the scent of ash and decay. Bare, blackened landscapes that look as though they may have been blown to fragments. Portions of some foreign and unknown world a powerful strain of dark, volcanic corruption.

If you should find this, it is best to leave as soon as possible. Though the ground may still be safe to stand on, the same cannot be said about the breathability of the air.

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

[Tim's moving at a brisk clip through the fabricated landscape, despite the heat and sweat; he doesn't plan on staying here any longer than he has to. If this place's psychological effects apply here, he especially doesn't want to stick around - he might get to a point where he doesn't want to leave, and then where will he be?]

[He's not keen on finding out. Nor is he keen on leaving some...kid in here either. He looks like a kid, anyway; knowing the way ages can be around here, he's not going to go to war on that one.]

Hey. You real? [Not as weird a question as it seems, honest.]

(A kid. Nezumi would have laughed if he heard the description. No one had considered him a child for a very, very long time, no matter his numerical age.)

I've already been told I look like a dream so you'll have to do better than that. (The kid might be a smartass.) I"m real. More real than anything here.

The doors don't seem to be real, either.

[Blink, several times, squint, and wait for his image to go static and fuzzy around the edges. It doesn't. There's the shimmer of Monsun's heat waves that occasionally distort the shape of sand dunes and the point in space where the ground meets the sky, but everything else seems more or less solid. You're not losing it, Tim. Not more than you usually do on the regular.]

I'll take your word for it. [What's one more hallucinatory nightmare?] The doors look like the only way out of this, so unless you have any better ideas...

A door should be an in and out, but someone forget to tell that to the doors here.

(The sand doesn't sink beneath his feet. Light-footed as Nezumi is, he should still leave traces behind him, but as he walks to the nearby door, the sand is as undisturbed as if he'd floated across the land.)

I would have been less surprised to be greeted by a rabbit wearing a hate and complaining about being late. (It feels like he's in Wonderland.) But by all means, lead me to salvation.

"Salvation" is a bit of a stretch. Try Ensō.

[There's a morbid joke shelved away somewhere in there, but he doesn't stir it out. He has a pack on his back, and he takes a moment to dig through it before extricating a flare gun. It's old and a bit battered, a bit weather-beaten, but it still works. He holds it up with a lift of his eyebrows.]

You armed?

My body wants to create an exit.

(Nezumi is very well-read, especially for someone who was raised under his circumstances. It means he has a little knowledge about a lot of things.

Steely eyes narrow at the gun in combination with the question. Nezumi didn't feel his knife when he woke up, meaning this stranger has an advantage over him. That doesn't sit well. )

Always. (It's a lie, but like hell he'll admit otherwise.)

Here.

[He tosses it to him.]

[Tim himself has a staggering amount of weapons on his person at this point, which is particularly glaring considering he was intent on not carrying any at one point. Didn't trust himself with them, see. But standards change when it's day to day survival on the line.]

It's supposed to be an emergency signal, but it'll work fine if you need to burn something. It's got four flares. Two red, two blue.

(Why is Tim giving him a weapon? His potential enemy is arming him? Why?

He doesn't see Nezumi as a threat. That's all. Tim must be one of the more trusting people. Sheltered. Ah, like a citizen of No. 6. That makes the answer more clear. They consider themselves safe, invincible.

Nezumi decides to ride on that. He won't trust anyone, but it's easier to not make an enemy without knowing their potential. Tim looks very, very non-threatening, but that's an advantage on his behalf.)

How very kind. (Nezumi examines the gun. He... isn't very knowledgeable in them. He can use a real gun, but this is his first time holding a flare gun. Nobody in his world would signal for help.) And very trusting. Are you so sure I'm not going to use it to rob you and leave you behind?

["Trusting" and "sheltered" are two adjectives that are seldom if ever applied to Timothy Wright of all people; his instincts, at the moment, skew toward arming people who don't have any means of fighting for themselves. Or don't appear to, in any case. When you're stuck on a desert island, you can never have too many weapons.]

Because I have eight flare guns and I need to get rid of them. [Seriously. He had thirty of these suckers when he first petitioned the Storyteller, and not enough people would take them so he's just sort of resorted to handing them out.]

You could, I guess. [He shrugs. The idea of being robbed and left for dead is...maybe not as horrifying as it should be?] But nobody stays dead here, so that's a hell of a risk to take.

(Nezumi's world, his particular piece of it, is divided between the Western District and the looming, protected city of No. 6. The citizens inside of the wall live very sheltered, easy lives while the people outside of it would kill Tim in hopes of selling the flare guns after.

Nezumi doesn't know a third type.)

I probably wouldn't need it to take down a guy who collects flare guns as a hobby. (Nezumi twirls it on his finger. It feels different than a real gun, but he imagines the mechanics are the same.

Nezumi isn't really going to kill for the sake of killing. He'll kill to defend himself, he'll turn his back on someone being killed, but he isn't really a predator in the same way he likes to exude.)

You'll come back to life, will you? Then what if I decide I wanted to do horrible things to you before killing you? Perhaps, instead of flare guns, I collect body parts. Will you forget that when you wake gracefully from the dead?

(His words are harsh, but he's trying to give a lesson beneath it : stop trusting people so much. The world is full of horrible people.)

[Nezumi is imparting a lesson that Tim, frankly, has internalized a little too well. So he shrugs, dismissive, apparently completely unconcerned at the prospect of being tortured to death.]

Okay, well, take your time. Don't bother with the lungs, either. [He gestures loosely at his chest region, offhand.] I'm kind of a chain-smoker, so the quality there isn't gonna be super great for the black market.

(Nezumi snorts in off-handed laughter.)

Second rate lungs. That's good. That'll make them cheap enough for the poor people to afford. (Black market. That says something. In the Western District, that's just the market. Not that most can afford organs. They just die.)

But the inventory is helpful. Go on.

[Hey, a laugh. So the kid digs gallows humor. Not that it's a shock, considering the shit he's been saying. Tim adjusts the strap of his pack so it rests a little more squarely on his shoulders.]

Yeah, we don't really have an economy either. People just do each other favors, or trade for what they want.

[Or, if you're Tim, hand flare guns to children. This was his attempt at an emergency system. It was a community thing, more or less.]

You good to go?

(Tim is an odd one. He isn't threatening Nezumi, but he isn't playing naive and innocent. Tired? Less to lose than most but not feral? It's hard to get a read on him.

It doesn't matter. Nezumi will stay behind him with a gun in hand. )

At your call, my liege.

(The kid with a gallow sense of humor is also dramatic.)

Just lead me not into temptation, but I would like to be delivered from evil.

[A flair for the dramatic to be sure. Tim raises his eyebrows faintly, but otherwise doesn't comment.]

I can deliver you to an island. It's hit or miss.

[He starts scanning the horizon, chewing on the wall of his cheek before he sights the presence of what he thinks might be the door out of this place. Or at least a door somewhere else.]

[He points. But he doesn't turn his back entirely; he doesn't let people walk behind him if he can help it. Moves with the kid at his periphery, well within eyesight.]

(Beside. Not his preference, but Nezumi is ready to get back to something familiar. Tim really doesn't look like he's much of a fighter, and Nezumi is quick on his feet. If he tries anything, it shouldn't be hard to sweep him off his feet and release the flare into his face.

It really is nothing personal, but trust equalled death for Nezumi.)

Does this island happen to have No. 6? (Nezumi hesitates. Tim isn't a resident of No. 6.) Or the Western District?

[Another shrug. He scratches at his jaw, where the cropping of days-old stubble is beginning to grow into a beard that has more to do with a general lack of self-care than it does anything else. It itches, and it gives him something to do with his hands.]

[Something besides dig for the lighter in his pocket. Or the flip-knife. Or the bone knife. Or the...countless other knives and weapons he carries on his person.]

No idea what either of those are. Sorry. If you just got here, it's...kind of an adjustment, I guess.

(He's absolutely right to not dig for knives. Nezumi distrusts him simply for existing. A knife would only increase that tenfold.)

Then, where will it be that you plan on leading me?

(For Nezumi, one strange location isn't necessarily better than another.)

Ensō is where we...technically are. Where we should be. We're inside the Temple right now, which really isn't supposed to look like this.

[But the Storyteller wasn't exactly in mint condition, after that shit with Mu. Not that Tim can blame them, but he is, as it happens, concerned. Mostly in regards to what this might mean for the rest of the goddamn island.]

(None of it makes sense, and Nezumi can't help the annoyance that bubbles up. He can't be in a Temple in some place he's never heard about.

He has two options, really: he can stand inside and argue the impossibility, or he can get out, get his bearings, and return home after. The latter is obviously the better option.)

Then, how about you show me what the outside looks like? (Nezumi is in front of the door. It looks like it leads to the same place, but so did the door that lead him here.)

Even the doors are liars... Maybe this will end up worse than the Western Block, after all. (Probably not.)

Not a fan of the Western Block?

[He has no idea what the Western Block is, but plenty of people are willing to talk about home if they're nudged in the right direction.]

[He taps at the door with the back of his hand. Seems solid enough. He throws his shoulder against it, and it opens to Chol - baked-red stone and cliffy terrain.]

...hm. Well, that's somewhere else, at least.

It's a wonderful piece of real estate. The dead and abused bodies even come free of charge.

(Nezumi's an open book about his home, if not about himself. Tim doesn't seem pampered enough for Nezumi to take the same kind of joy in shocking him, but he also doesn't like the idea of people brushing aside and hiding the horrific districts they'd created.)

Somewhere else that isn't the exit. (Nezumi wants to sigh, but he holds it back. He has to seem in charge of the situation.)

But I'm afraid it doesn't change quite as much as this lovely temple.

Hm.

[He's not particularly shocked, no. Tim frowns but nonetheless steps through the door. One hand is thrust into the pocket of his jeans, which have long since lost their bluish denim hue in favor of the mud-colored, worn-thin fabric they've long since become.]

[He half-turns. Again, keeping the unknown variable ever in his periphery.]

Yeah, things definitely aren't supposed to be like this.

(Nezumi's steely eyes glance toward the hand. Casually, he moves further away in case Tim plans to pull a knife from his pocket. He'll need enough time to raise the gun before the blade can reach him.)

Do you have anything else in that pocket of yours? If we mark the trail, we'll at least know we're moving forward.

(But Nezumi knows forward may not necessarily lead to the right path.)

I keep plenty in here.

[He tugs on the strap of his pack once. Doesn't seem concerned that Nezumi might try to thieve it from under him - or maybe he's just content with that by default. Who knows, really?]

But, no. Nothing I could use to mark the trail.

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