August Event: The City is at War

[lifeaftr_mods]

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

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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 )

Comments

[journalname]

[Of course, now that he's down, the invader suddenly wants peace.

But the fires of his island are burning around him and inside him. Embers swirl around the edges of his cape when he moves, and Asgore finds that he no longer wishes to consider their surrender.]

Do not tell me what I cannot do! I will kill any of you who come here!

[He roars, and the force of it in his chest feels unreal. When was the last time he even raised his voice? Unreal too, how he abandons the safety of his cover without thinking, moving instead to close the distance between them. His fire is wonderful, far more than he'd realized; how did he take so long to see how blessed he was to have it? But one close attack with his trident will end this quickly, and then he can burn it all in peace.

Were he to stop and think, he would have thought better. He's a very large target, out in the open now and storming closer. A monster should always keep their distance, be cautious, be quick. But he feels as out of control as the flames - and yet still, somehow, it feels correct.]

[counterblows]

Goddamn monster!

[He has no idea how correct he is in a very particular way. The closer this guy gets, the more he looms. God, he's fucking massive. Enormous, towering, shooting flames seemingly on instinct, making the ground shake, roaring like some kind of goddamned animal.]

[He's also a big target.]

[Fuck. A big target.]

[Wash fumbles for his rifle, snaps it up, and - there's a sensation that he's forgetting something, that he's not issuing a warning of some kind. But what point is there in that? They're on opposite sides, here.]

[If he doesn't do something he's fucked.]

[So he starts spraying bullets indiscriminately, hoping that one of them does the trick.]

[journalname]

[Asgore, meanwhile, just hears some human using his name as a slur. It's not the first time, but he never said anything before, always trying to be so polite.]

Cursed human!

[He lifts the trident - but then the human opens fire, and he doesn't have anywhere to take shelter. One bullet catches him in the chest, and another in the side. Stunned, Asgore stumbles and drops to his knees. He can feel the flesh around the wounds already streaming into dust. It's not fast, though, so maybe he could still save himself. He knows how quickly monsters can dust when they're dealt a killing blow. He's seen it happen before, and he has no doubts that this human has as well.

The automaton is firing again, laying down cover as it moves forward on its new rescue mission, but Asgore pays it little mind. With flagging strength, he raises the trident again and throws it with his uninjured arm, trying his best to aim dead center. He knows this is probably his last shot.]

[counterblows]

[The next thing he knows, there's a massive trident arcing straight for him. It's not as fast as a bullet, which is the only way that Wash has enough time to account for the improbably huge projectile streaking for him and try to avoid it by ducking down, moving to the side.]

[He doesn't entirely succeed.]

[One of the tines slams through his upper arm with an awful crunch of shearing metal and splitting bone. It skewers him to the ground like a pin through a butterfly to corkboard with the sheer momentum. His gun goes skidding out across the ground, spinning uselessly out of reach.]

[The scream that rips its way out of Wash's throat is long and wordless and animal and like no sound he can ever remember making in his life.]

[journalname]

[For the barest moment, the sound of cracking bone and screams makes Asgore's stomach drop. He almost sees some other place, lit rose-gold in sunset, some other smaller body casting a too-long shadow at his feet.

No. No. That never happened. That cannot have happened.

Asgore's head spins, and he barely notices as he falls sideways into the arms of the arriving automaton. The holes in his torso are slowly spreading, his body dissolving away into nothing more than twin streams of dust. He'll fall apart soon if untreated, crumble right in half like some old forgotten thing.

There's other hands joining the ones holding him, lifting him up, taking him away. But Asgore can't focus enough to help them or heal himself. His thoughts are chasing each other in circles, trying to defend against this invading image that never happened. He knows who he is. Nastrandir is his homeland. The other Nastrandirians are his family. The fact that he must kill the enemy and burn out their taint follows easily from those two truths, and so it is true as well.

So he focuses on what he knows, home and family and fire, until that feeling of certainty crowds out any other thoughts. Until he forgets what he was even thinking of before. It wasn't important. Nothing else is important. Because any alternative, any other self, isn't even worth imagining.

(The trident pinning Wash vanishes not too long after Asgore's gone. He can't maintain its form anymore. But he holds it for as long as he can. He must kill the enemy.)]

[counterblows]

[Impossibly, Wash's brain doesn't shut down. It refuses to. It doesn't blank out his nerves into blissful silence, doesn't short out the screaming agony that's been made of his arm and cut it into a euphoric numb. It's as though every part of himself is so used to bitter survival to any end that it's still locked in that perpetual stubbornness to just - keep - going.]

[Someone else would call that determination.]

[Right now, Wash calls it a fucking nightmare.]

[He knows what he has to do. He knows what he has to do, because giving up isn't an option. It's not wired into him. It's bone-deep, psychological, pathological, and it means that he's going to have to reach up and try and get the trident out.]

[He risks doing more damage to himself in the process, but that's the only option he has. The other is to sit and wait for the robots or the monster to get him, and he's not fucking dying here, trapped like some prey-animal, pinned and waiting for the end.]

[He reaches up. Stretching tortured muscle to grasp the base of the fork in the trident, where it splits into its prongs, is an excruciating process unto itself. His hand barely closes around the circumference of the thing. Its grip is clearly for someone with hands so, so much bigger than his own.]

[He has no leverage, but he has to try anyway. Straining, bracing his back against the ground, despite the shrieking protest of his muscles, he wrenches.]

[The world cuts out for several long, tortuous seconds. When his senses return to him, it's because he can taste blood between ground teeth where he chomped down on the wall of his cheek. It's because he can hear himself trying not to scream, and mostly failing.]

[The trident doesn't budge.]

[Why aren't they coming for him?]

[Doesn't have long. He knows he doesn't have long. He can't. So he can't get the trident out. There's no way. It's too big, too goddamn heavy, and he's a sitting duck.]

[The next thought he has is violent and horrific and absolutely cutthroat. It's the kind of thought someone would have if they're used to surviving, no matter the personal cost.]

[It's also the only idea he has.]

[Bullets can pierce his armor. He knows that from the bleeding shot to his thigh, which feels like little more than a pinprick compared to the absolute agony that's been made of his arm and shoulder - hell, his entire right half.]

[With an effort that's painful, for every creeping inch that he commits to it, he reaches down to his thigh. The sidearm is still clamped there by the magnetic strip. It feels like every muscle in his shoulder is tearing when he strains to reclaim it. Thumbs off the safety. Can't check and make sure if it's loaded. Just has to hope.]

[His vision's going fuzzy.]

[With a sense of resolve that does nothing to alleviate the grim finality to the act, Wash sets the muzzle of the gun up against the part of his arm where the humerus joints into the meat of his shoulder.]

[He squeezes his eyes shut. He'll only have the strength to do this the once. Empty a clip and hope that'll be enough, because he sure as hell won't have it in him to reload.]

[Count down from three, and then pull the trigger.]

[It's not hard.]

[Three, two - ]

[The trident flickers and vanishes.]

[Its sudden absence is abrupt enough to cause Wash to lurch on the spot, reflexive tears pouring from his eyes behind the safety of his helmet.]

[Oh god.]

[Oh fuck.]

[A trap? A trick?]

[It doesn't matter. He can't afford to wait and find out.]

[He has to get up, and he has to run.]

[He has to find water.]