lifeaftr | August Event: The City is at War

August Event: The City is at War

AUGUST EVENT: THE CITY IS AT WAR

Who: Everyone!
What: You pick a side, or you pick up the pieces
When: August 16th to August 23rd
Where: Primarily Nastrandir, though also Ensō
Warnings: Violence, injury, forcibly altered mindsets via magical influence, possible character death. Potential (and fully optional) dissociation and identity crises. Potential (and fully optional) spontaneous combustion. Otherwise, tag as you go!

We All Lose in the End
On cue, the recently uncovered...and decidedly faulty merotome shatters on the morning of August 16th. Those close enough may recall an odd popping noise, like a lightbulb exploding, or find a shard of some odd, rubbery substance caught in their hair. The wave that shoots out across both islands barely seems to stir the air, but the aftershocks of its passing are to be felt for the week to come.

Whether or not you noticed the sweeping burst of light as it roared over just about everything, you're bound to hear the loud, wailing sound that starts to emit from all over Nastrandir. It sounds like the world's worst kind of alarm, and it just keeps on going.

That's to say nothing of the automatons rising steadily from the murk, or the fact that you might find that some of your fellow explorers are suddenly seeming a lot more trustworthy...and some of them are seeming a lot less. Maybe you latch onto personal terrors and preexisting grudges to justify the new onset of violence that starts to divide you from some of your fellows...or maybe it just feels right in some unquantifiable sense.

Regardless, those impacted by the merotome will find themselves gravitating towards Nastrindar sooner rather than later. Members of the Red Team are likely to initially head towards the ruins on C4 and D4. The swampy water flooding the island will eventually drive you to seek out more mountainous areas; the need to keep dry will vary from a strong desire to an absolute necessity, depending on the individual. As territorial instincts rear their head, this group will find that the war automatons no longer view them as hostiles. Now, these mechanical killers may even take basic orders, such as watching a certain location, fetching some basic materials, and, of course, upon whom they should aim their primary fire.

Meanwhile, the Blue Team will congregate along the shorelines, striking out inland through any route that keeps them close to a body of water - or in it. More likely to travel and fight in a pair or group, it's unlikely that members of this group will stay from the main party for too long, as their power is largely in numbers. While no automatons accompany them into battle, the waters surrounding and soaking into Nastrandir are their greatest ally, as they are capable of replenishing strength and healing minor wounds. Members of the Blue Team will be capable of continuing the fight for much longer than their Red counterparts, and their affinity with the waters will make them difficult to locate or pursue unless they wish it.

You Don't Get Another Shot
For those more resistant to the effects of this sudden shift will find that they're now unfortunately adrift between two warring factions, potentially with friends on either side. There is hope, however - those previously silent sirens are now blaring constantly, and it's very possible that their destruction could turn the tide against this needless bloodshed. The more of those you break, the looser the grip of this altered mindset will become, and the less hostile the automatons will be.

Keep in mind, however, that while you may feel unaffected, the possibility stands that you've been marked for one side without your knowledge. And though this may prove advantageous to getting through to those that identify you as their own, those that do not may take your attempts to shake their morale badly.

Even violently.

Stick Around and See How It Ends
Thus far, the teams are as follows. If you see any problems, inconsistencies, or wish to change teams, please don't hesitate to contact us! While we're no longer accepting sign-ups to be RNG'd into a team, you can still decide retroactively which side you'd like your character to be situated on, if at all!

RED TEAM	BLUE TEAM
Alexei Dinoia Amaterasu Anthony J. Crowley Asgore Dreemurr Connor Murphy Edward Elric Erika Fisher Jules Dagger Samari Leonard Church Muffet Tim Wright Yukio Okumura Zidane Tribal	2B Alisaie Leveilleur Agent Washington Ben Hargreeves The Drifter Epsilon Héctor Rivera Herbert West Horatio Nullbuilt Kravitz Legion Mollymauk Tealeaf Ren Rin Okumura Steve Rogers

In the meantime, the following links may prove handy:

[ ♆ ] OOC Event Info and Plotting Post
[ ♆ ] Nastrandir's Intro
[ ♆ ] Nastrandir's Locations Page

Event Timeline

[ ♆ ] August 16th: The merotome breaks, issuing a mind-altering wave; the sirens go off, and definitive sides in a conflict start to form
[ ♆ ] August 23rd: The conflict ends when those who have not been freed from the mind-altering influence either break free or burn to death
[ ♆ ] August 24th: The monthly Storytelling occurs late; characters who have died are revived in time to participate
[ ♆ ] September 4th: Extra time is allotted to those participating in the monthly Storytelling to compensate for the later date, and the Storytelling closes

LOGS ● OOC ● STORIES ● MAIN NAVIGATION

( CODED BY BOOTYCALL )

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[The Drifter wrenches furiously against their constraints, regardless of what she says to dissuade them. What is she talking about? What is she? Familiar and not familiar, all at once, talking to them like she knows them. They don't - they do - they - ]

[They open their mouth to protest, like anyone would.]

[The sound that they make instead is quiet, pained, and faintly rasping. Like their vocal cords don't work. That doesn't make any sense. Why...why wouldn't they work?]

[She blinks, frowning in confusion. Certainly, mutism isn't unheard of, but they seem... surprised by it? They don't look injured...]

[Slowly, she raises her hands and spells out a single sentence:]

Do you not know sign language?

[...Where did she learn sign language? Somehow she can't quite recall...]

[Another gagging sound, short and breathy, as they try again. It hurts. It scrapes muscles and vocal cords that have been ravaged by a terminal cough that's stalked them for a vast portion of their life, now unremembered. The creature is making signs with her hands - signs that, inexplicably, they understand.]

[Which is just too bad. They don't negotiate with the enemy.]

[They can't cut through these webs, and she's out of range of their blade, but they can still hurt her if they must. Dig into their cloak and extricate a weapon whose name they don't remember. It's their zaliska.]

[They point it at her, bristling. The message here is apparent, audible or no.]

[Release them. Now.]

[Inwardly, Muffet curses herself for not thinking to bind their hands more tightly. The model is strange and unfamiliar, but she's familiar enough with the traditional weaponry of Nastrandir to recognize a gun when she sees one.]

Using a weapon designed after one of our own? My, what would your people say?

[One good hit from that and she could very well be dead- but she has one of her own hands raised in threat and warning, poised to call the strings to tighten further. They look weak already, struggling to breathe- if the purple magic constricted about their chest and throat, she suspects it wouldn't take much to kill them.]

[If they strike her a lethal blow, she might yet be able to take them with her. They're at an impasse.]

[Their people. Their people are...blue-skinned, and violent, and designed to fight without stopping for hours if necessary. Their people were made to fight a war.]

[No. Their people came here on boats. Their people came here to destroy the blasphemers, and make them pay.]

[Their people...]

[They can't remember which people they're supposed to be thinking of.]

[The confusion swells like a boil until finally, it must be lanced. Aim for one of her hands and shoot. It's as much an effort to break free of their bindings as it is a desire to crush the dichotomous thoughts teeming through their skull.]

[She sees them moving and throws herself down, dropping to the forest floor- there's no time to dodge more gracefully or carefully, no room for planning and tactics, just the frantic instinctive response of a being trying to survive.]

[Even so, the shot only misses by a hair.]

[Her hand tightens unthinkingly as she drops, pulling threads but not the threads she'd intended, the ones that would choke and crush. Instead, the web as a whole pulls upward, going from just above the ground to the treeline in a sudden rush. ]

[Then they're shooting upward. They can't struggle free, no matter how they contort themself. It isn't sufficient - the threads are stuck fast. The Drifter crashes into a tree with enough force to jar their vision to a standstill, fill their head with stars and fireworks.]

[Fireworks - booms and pops over the ocean waves, and the sound of laughter - ]

[They need to get free. The gun drops from their hand from the sudden motion. They need another - another weapon, anything.]

[Instead, their hand falls to the round orb of an object they cannot name. It's a bomb, though the function escapes them. They just try to throw it as best as they can, hoping it's a projectile with some heft.]

[It is.]

[It glows as it sails through the air, and in a few moments, it will detonate.]

[Muffet looks up and does not, audibly, swear. The expression on her face, however, communicates a great deal of profanity being firmly repressed.]

[Then again, even if she was planning to use it, she might not have time.]

[It's too close to her- to them- to run-]

[Short on time and options, she acts on instinct, lacking time to plan. Instead of getting to her feet and trying to run, she throws out a line of purple magic, attaching it to the same web that caught the Drifter, and kicks off the ground as the line sharply contracts, flinging herself forward.]

[Past the bomb.]

[Right at them.]

[At the last moment, before she collides with the web and is caught, she dismisses the magic, allowing herself to keep falling forward as the momentum carries her further away. But... as she does, some strange instinct compels her to reach out, trying to grab the Drifter by their cloak and pull them along with her instead of letting them drop.]

[She doesn't know why, conscious mind too focused on survival, but risking them being caught in the explosion feels... wrong.]

[There's a crackling, sparking boom below, but the spider is already careening for them. Perhaps to attempt to crush them into submission, drive into them at full speed - ]

[She doesn't. Instead, fingers hook into the cloak and grab them, as if to haul them out of the way of the explosion of their own making.]

[It won't hurt them. It can't - they're not the target. She was the target. But there's still enough of a disruption to jostle the trees around them, and the Drifter isn't anticipating the additional variable. Instead of the explosion taking out an opponent, the Drifter instead goes ragdolling uselessly away from it.]

[Hands working frantically, Muffet spins threads midair, trying to catch onto passing branches for just long enough to bleed off momentum, giving them a survivable landing, without stopping them from moving forward entirely.]

[As it is, she hits the dirt beside the Drifter, one hand still clenched tightly in their cloak. She tenses, as if about to spring on them, and then-]

[Stops.]

[Somehow, suddenly, she's somewhere exactly like this and nothing like it at all. Another place, another forest, looking down at this stranger's familiar face.]

[Red, there's red everywhere, but it's not an injury- there's no pain, just a feeling of embarrassment and-]

[Laughter?]

What is...

[Her voice is scarcely more than a whisper. The vision (memory?) is gone as quick as it came, vanishing in an instant, but it leaves her feeling even more stunned than the impact of hitting the forest floor.]

[Even the way she'd hesitated to pin them- some part of her, buried but not gone, an instinctive surety- no, you can't, not to them.]

[It hurts more than it should. A knock, a fall, a tumble - they should be able to shake this off and get up and keep moving, shrugging off damage as easily as doubt. But it hurts instead, leaves their head ringing.]

[Get up. They need to get up.]

[Can't.]

[And then, abruptly, they do, wrenching upward, staggering, grabbing at the nearest tree for support, coughing a gout of pinkish blood into the dirt. Their head feels snowed in with static, and there's an awful prickling gathering in their chest, at the base of their lungs.]

[What did...what did she do to them...?]

[This isn't normal. Is it? Is it? No, it - it shouldn't be. It's not supposed to be - !]

[She's speaking, but they can't hear. Instead they double over, and retch blood into the earth.]

Are you- [She bites off the rest of the sentence, unable to ask all right? without it becoming a stupid question on multiple levels.]

[In the first place, who inquires after the health of an enemy? In the second, well.]

[The answer already seems fairly obvious.]

[Another (memory?) vision threatens to surface, even older than the first- a cliff, a beach, the sound of waves- but she shakes her head sharply, clearing her thoughts.]

[Pulling herself to her feet, checking briefly for any injuries of her own, she approaches them warily. There's... less hostility, than there was at the start- somehow, she can't quite bring herself to muster up the rage she felt at first, the fire burning itself out in a way terribly contrary to her usual capacity for keeping grudges.]

[But they're still a threat, and she knows better than to get within arm's reach.]

[They force their eyes open, force themself to stumble upright, trying to focus on the violet silhouette moving carefully, warily closer. Not attacking them. Not attempting to trap them once more. A trap? A trick?]

[The taste of their own blood is bitter and hot. They spit another gobbet of it into the dirt, squinting at her.]

[She...she must have done something to them.]

[Something when she caught them, or when she sent them flying into the air. Some poison, some magic trick, some injury that's festering in the heart of them. That must be what this is. It has to be, because there's no other reason that this should be...that this should be happening.]

[They lurch for her. One hand falls to their blade, still secure beneath their cloak, and activates it with a cold hum.]

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August Event: The City is at War

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cw: emetophobia, blood

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