November Intro: We Used to Think Our Words Were Gold

[lifeaftr_mods]

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 )

Comments

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[vagabone]

[He's been stumbling his way through the horrible maze of the doors, losing track of time and the landscapes keep getting worse. But this one's not as bad for him as it is for the fleshy folks. It's more comfortable to breathe, don't ask him why, but he can stop anytime. No biggie.

He homes in on the sound of some poor slob coughing, wishing he could shout. Say their name. Something. He can't even whistle. Instead, he lays a hand on their back. Feels more like being poked at with sticks than an actual person's hand.]

[hyperlit]

[It's familiar. Pins and needles shooting through their fingertips and down to the beds of their lungs. Their back is cloaked in crimson, heaving up and down in arrhythmic sputters of coughs. There's a hand on their back, and they whirl - fast, fast enough for their blade to be out and humming cerulean in the blink of an eye.]

[Contact always startles them.]

[vagabone]

[He steps backwards as quick as he can, the only sound the rattling of his bones, and holds his hands up defensively. This is getting to be a regular occurrence. Too many twitchy people with swords around.

He jerks his thumb and skull too in the direction he thinks he came from. Door's that way, hopefully! Just follow the bony footprints.]

[hyperlit]

[It takes them a moment to...adjust. Realize, recognize, that the person touching them is not an enemy. An ally? Yes, they think so - he has assisted them before. Spoken to them before. He did not seem to dislike them unduly, the way most here have. They have grown too used to being accepted, unresisting.]

[Or...not enough. But they can follow the line that he points to the door, and nod.]

[They'll follow, even if they struggle slightly against the weight of their own sickness squeezing tight around their chest. Their blade sputters off, replaced back within the folds of their cloak.]

[vagabone]

[One pigeon-toed, barebones foot after another, stepping right on top of his own distinct footprints, and probably leaving a very strange trail for someone else to find. His feet are already coated in the dust that they're walking through. And he looks back over and over, making sure the Drifter is still with him. All that matters is that they make it to the door. Step two can come later.

Can't say a word, any more than they can, and he doesn't have any fancy tech to use. Best he can do is mouth 'okay?' to them, with his weird flexible skeleton... lips?]

[hyperlit]

[They tumble through it, once they reach it - pitching and rolling forward in a flurry of dust and cloak. They right themself quickly, their eyes hooded into disoriented slits.]

[But on the other side, Ai'tuoh's empty streets await them. The ground is smooth and solid, even if the shades of grays and off-whites are unfriendly in the reminder of what they represent.]

[The Drifter raises their head, scanning in search of the skeleton. He made it through, did he? He ought to have, yes?]

[vagabone]

[Yep, he's there. Balancing on one leg like an idiot stork as he reattaches the other leg. It's an everyday occurance, losing limbs! Hence him being so casual about it.

'Okay?' he mouths at them, one last time. Better now that the air is breathable?]

[hyperlit]

[...ah. He's lost a limb. The Drifter blinks at the sight, but seeing as he seems more or less in good condition despite this, they call no attention to it. The Drifter nods, slowly, though their shoulders shudder in another cough that belies their answer.]

yes
you

[vagabone]

[Right. A drink of water would help them. ...Water he doesn't have, unless they want to drink it out of a squirt gun. (Gross, who knows where that's been.)

He's fine. Nodding, yessing, smiling, no harm done. He's just... much more lost than before. No footprint trail to follow here. Ah, Enso, he misses you already.]

[hyperlit]

[It occurs to them that something is...off. It takes them a moment to process what, so accustomed they are to silence - but he is not silent, is he? No. He is loud, and talkative, and he is particularly deft and pouring words into the silence that the Drifter cannot help but exude.]

you do not speak

[The why is implicit.]

[vagabone]

[They're standing on a proper street now and that's no good. Can't use the dirt as a blank slate to write on. Can't do anything, but mouth out the words as if he still has a voice.

Well, just one word. He'll keep it short and simple.

'Died.']

[hyperlit]

[...ah.]

[No further explanation is needed. They remember their first death, when the crystal swallowed them whole. They had woken disoriented, their sprite useless. The adjustment had not been pleasant.]

do you speak with hands?

[vagabone]

[That has to be an odd way of asking if he knows sign language. Right? Either way... no, not if he's not quite sure what they mean. He shakes his head, apologetically.]

[hyperlit]

[They've grown too used to those who have learned at least a handful of words, communicated via sign language. Too used to being able to communicate what they always do. One should never get too comfortable in that regard. And yet they have, haven't they - they've allowed that sense of complacency, presumption that their language would be understood.]

[Let this be a lesson.]

[They can think of nothing else to say to that. And so they move on.]

should get out

[vagabone]

[He turns in a circle and... sees no other out of place doors. Awesome, more good news. Looking back their way, he shrugs!! It's a good idea, but which way?

This whole day feels like one great big shrug, honestly. Teach him to be curious.]

[hyperlit]

[The Drifter braces their hand over their chest. The faint pressure eases some of the pulsing squeeze of their heart, the ache yoked over it. Not by much, but enough to galvanize them into motion.]

[They start moving without much warning, or concern for giving one. Not aside from the almost rote:]

this place
a bad place

[vagabone]

[No questions asked, they know much more than he does and it being a 'bad place' is believable. And sort of expected, considering everything. He just clutches at the rim of his hat and hurries to match their pace.]

[hyperlit]

[He was not here when they encountered the people of Ai'tuoh - or if he was, they do not remember seeing him there. The best thing to do, in this case, is focus on getting out of here as quickly as possible.]

look for door

[vagabone]

[He nods, goes without saying that any out of place doors are the way to a... possible less-bad place. New places. Usually terrible. Nuidan is the one exception since he started this adventure.

They walk, they make some progress... and then he's snapping his fingers obnoxiously for attention, cupping a hand where an ear would be once the Drifter's looking at him. He glances around pointedly, then shrugs. No sounds of people. Is anyone here?]

[hyperlit]

[If it works, it works. The Drifter betrays no signs of annoyance - they simply glance up, tracking the sound, and then watch him closely.]

this place is populated
ordinarily
it was in rubble when we left it

[vagabone]

[And doesn't that make him feel awfully exposed. What's he supposed to do if people rush out and attack them? Shed body parts like lizards do their tails?

No more random doors. Never again. And maybe he'll think about getting some kind of weapon that doesn't outweigh him. Until then, just keep walking.]

[hyperlit]

[They do not explain further - how they were all captured due to silly, superfluous, arbitrary rules, and how they were stripped of their weapons and equipment and thrown into some dark portal. How they very nearly died down there. How some among their number did die, and did not come back.]

[The dark silhouette of a door is a welcome change to the gray-beige corridors of the city. The Drifter points.]

there

[vagabone]

['Ay, finally' he mouths, out of habit. Nope, imaginary voicebox still broken. But now they have a door!

He'll go through first, if he's quick enough. Meatshield minus the meat--maybe if there is something vicious on the other side, it'll go for him first... and the blue dude with the sword will have some warning.]

[hyperlit]

[The Drifter did plan on going through it first - but they weren't expecting Héctor to move ahead of them. They react immediately, dashing on after him - wait.]

[The effort turns out to be pointless. The door takes them right back to the Storyteller's Temple, the way it's meant to look, plus or minus a few...particularly animate chalk carvings.]

[vagabone]

[Sweet, sweet safety, and he's kept all his bones together this time too. What was the point of all that, besides teaching everyone not to go through random doors?

(Which really shouldn't need to be taught. At least he wasn't the only idiot who did.)

He waits for the Drifter to show up again, then just gives them a thumbs up. They made it!!]