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Entry tags:
- !event,
- athena | borderlands,
- benedict dearborn | original,
- carver hawke | dragon age,
- daenerys targaryen | game of thrones,
- eliot waugh | the magicians,
- ellie | the last of us,
- ivar ragnarsson | vikings,
- lee sung-hoon | duel,
- logan | marvel,
- octavia blake | the 100,
- robbie reyes | marvel,
- ruth aldine | marvel,
- vin venture | mistborn,
- will graham | hannibal,
- william | westworld
BONFIRE LIGHTS IN THE MIRROR OF SKY.
WHO: Everyone in game.
WHAT: Our first event log!
WHERE: Anywhere in the world core.
WHEN: After the storms begin.
NOTES: Expect surreal horror and possible violence. Please use common sense when warning for other content.
WHAT: Our first event log!
WHERE: Anywhere in the world core.
WHEN: After the storms begin.
NOTES: Expect surreal horror and possible violence. Please use common sense when warning for other content.
Photo by drainrat
PREVIOUSLY, ON THE WASTEYARD.
The world remains divided into a land where either a hazy sun shines muted light above or a full moon casts silvery shadows below. They hang fixed, as if nailed in place, more like theatrical props than far-off heavenly bodies. And you can still see only one of them, depending on which side you arrived.
Meanwhile, the storm rages.
On both sides of the world, the rain starts and doesn't stop. The temperature drops, transforming torrential rain into icy snow. Gusts of wind become gales and spin detritus into shrapnel, man-made disasters turned natural. Shadows spin wildly—almost comically—in cyclones, before bursting into nothingness; if you aren't careful, the winds will snatch you, too. Out here, the only protection you might have is cooperating with each other.
Indoors, it's certainly warmer, but that just means water doesn't freeze. Buildings flood with chilly water that rises no matter how many stairs you climb. Architecture groans under the pressure of earthquakes, sending more water cascading through the ceiling before it disappears into cracks below. Is anywhere safe?
Well, yes. One place, splintered into many. The mirrors in ash-gray frames stand sentinel, scattered throughout the world. They emit warm light from the other side; sunlight spills moonside and moonlight reflects sunside. Water impossibly flows around and away from them, leaving behind untouched earth that stays still and silent. Standing in front of them gives you a respite, a tiny bubble of safety to wait out the worst.
Meanwhile, the storm rages.
On both sides of the world, the rain starts and doesn't stop. The temperature drops, transforming torrential rain into icy snow. Gusts of wind become gales and spin detritus into shrapnel, man-made disasters turned natural. Shadows spin wildly—almost comically—in cyclones, before bursting into nothingness; if you aren't careful, the winds will snatch you, too. Out here, the only protection you might have is cooperating with each other.
Indoors, it's certainly warmer, but that just means water doesn't freeze. Buildings flood with chilly water that rises no matter how many stairs you climb. Architecture groans under the pressure of earthquakes, sending more water cascading through the ceiling before it disappears into cracks below. Is anywhere safe?
Well, yes. One place, splintered into many. The mirrors in ash-gray frames stand sentinel, scattered throughout the world. They emit warm light from the other side; sunlight spills moonside and moonlight reflects sunside. Water impossibly flows around and away from them, leaving behind untouched earth that stays still and silent. Standing in front of them gives you a respite, a tiny bubble of safety to wait out the worst.
INTO THE LABYRINTH.
Once you plunge indoors—unless you're really that determined to take your chances in the storm—you'll find every building with electricity experiencing a brownout. The overhead lights flicker and radios crackle with static, warbling broken news reports and tunes. They eavesdrop on strings of Morse code and private confessions on ham radio. If it's ever been broadcast on the airwaves, public or personal, you might hear it if you tune to the right station; you might even hear yourself, replaying a conversation you've had or will have. And sometimes the audio seems pointed, preternaturally so, as if tuned to your own thoughts and words.
Meanwhile, the waters continue to rise. The halls stretch long, seemingly infinite and twisted into knots. In some of them, no matter how far you walk, it seems like you never get any closer to the end; in others, you hit one dead end and can't stop hitting dead ends, no matter how many times you retrace your steps. None of that's unusual.
But if you delve deep into dark enough recesses (whether accidentally or intentionally), the world calms. The water recedes. Mirrors materialize in the dead ends, scratching out an "X" in the frame before your eyes. If you touch one, the glass falls away in ribbons, flowing like quicksilver and fleeing farther into the darkness. It reveals a hole on the other side, so deep a black it looks flat. Wherever it goes, it's so dark you can't see the other side.
And that's when you hear a sound like someone inhaling and then exhaling, steadily breathing around you. No...you feel it. A presence that has no form no matter how hard you look, but follows you in creaks and groans. It feels like being stalked by a monster in a maze.
Running from it only intensifies the feeling. Attacking makes it even worse. Calm acceptance is the only way to lessen or even neutralize it, but that's something you'll have to discover for yourself. In the end, there's no way to defeat it. You have to trust your instincts and believe it's there, despite the fact that you can't see or touch it.
Meanwhile, the waters continue to rise. The halls stretch long, seemingly infinite and twisted into knots. In some of them, no matter how far you walk, it seems like you never get any closer to the end; in others, you hit one dead end and can't stop hitting dead ends, no matter how many times you retrace your steps. None of that's unusual.
But if you delve deep into dark enough recesses (whether accidentally or intentionally), the world calms. The water recedes. Mirrors materialize in the dead ends, scratching out an "X" in the frame before your eyes. If you touch one, the glass falls away in ribbons, flowing like quicksilver and fleeing farther into the darkness. It reveals a hole on the other side, so deep a black it looks flat. Wherever it goes, it's so dark you can't see the other side.
And that's when you hear a sound like someone inhaling and then exhaling, steadily breathing around you. No...you feel it. A presence that has no form no matter how hard you look, but follows you in creaks and groans. It feels like being stalked by a monster in a maze.
Running from it only intensifies the feeling. Attacking makes it even worse. Calm acceptance is the only way to lessen or even neutralize it, but that's something you'll have to discover for yourself. In the end, there's no way to defeat it. You have to trust your instincts and believe it's there, despite the fact that you can't see or touch it.
CHANGING SIDES.
Elsewhere, it starts as a smell.
As the ground shudders and cracks, the stench of rot comes from the fissures. Mirrors and windows melt off walls, and a strong sense of vertigo comes and goes, like cresting waves. Looking out a window shows buildings and bridges breaking off of the labyrinth and drifting—or plummeting—away. They dissolve into nothingness as they vanish into the abyss, like they were bathed in acid. The already fragile world is falling apart.
It comes with a pervasive sense of wrongness, perhaps ironic in a world where everything is already wrong. But that's when it happens: You look up and realize you're no longer where you started. The sun or the moon, whichever you expected, is no longer in the sky. Instead, on the horizon lies its opposite.
It's a phenomenon unique to areas with high concentrations of ash mirrors and hallways, particularly when there's someone else on the other side. Sometimes the instability flips your positions, so one of you is now in the dimension where the other previously stood, while other times it drags you both together into the light of the sun or moon. It's like you resonate, magnets attracting or repelling each other in little pockets of peace.
As the ground shudders and cracks, the stench of rot comes from the fissures. Mirrors and windows melt off walls, and a strong sense of vertigo comes and goes, like cresting waves. Looking out a window shows buildings and bridges breaking off of the labyrinth and drifting—or plummeting—away. They dissolve into nothingness as they vanish into the abyss, like they were bathed in acid. The already fragile world is falling apart.
It comes with a pervasive sense of wrongness, perhaps ironic in a world where everything is already wrong. But that's when it happens: You look up and realize you're no longer where you started. The sun or the moon, whichever you expected, is no longer in the sky. Instead, on the horizon lies its opposite.
It's a phenomenon unique to areas with high concentrations of ash mirrors and hallways, particularly when there's someone else on the other side. Sometimes the instability flips your positions, so one of you is now in the dimension where the other previously stood, while other times it drags you both together into the light of the sun or moon. It's like you resonate, magnets attracting or repelling each other in little pockets of peace.
THE LOCKED ROOM.
Amidst the chaos, as the world shifts and there's no telling where or when you are, you slip through a crack. Or maybe you're a weirdo who climbed through the hole left behind a mirror.
In either case, the fissure is both literal and metaphorical, influenced by the unstable world and your actions. Maybe you step through a door, crawl through a crevice, close your eyes, or do something else to take you between here and there. Whatever the case, you find yourself in a room unlike any others you've seen in this distorted world. Well...once you look closer, anyway. On the surface, it may just be another kitchen, ballroom, or cellar.
But in these rooms, it doesn't matter which side of the divide you were on. Not only because you can't see whatever lights the sky, but because they lie between dimensions. There are no windows and no doors; you'll only find walls the same mottled gray as everything else in this place. Attacking them gets you nowhere. Any damage is there and gone, like the erased moments between flashes of a strobe light. There is no easy way out.
But there is a mirror. Hairline cracks run through its surface, shattering a single reflection into multitudes. Set in an ash-gray frame like so many others, it's left somewhere in the room, whether hanging on a wall, haphazard on the floor, or leaning against some furniture. It emanates the skin-prickling sensation of being watched. Turning away doesn't help; you can feel it gazing at your back.
The haunted feeling only subsides when you stare back. And you should stare back, because these mirrors are your escape route. Staring into them will reveal someone on the other side with the same predicament. Surprisingly, you can hear each other when you speak. It even comes translated if you don't speak the same language, although your mouths still sync to your native tongues. It's like a poorly dubbed movie.
Touching the mirror gives you the impression it's somehow leeching off you, trying to fill those cracks. Try to pull your hand away and you'll find it's a little difficult, like unsticking your tongue from a cold pole. Moreover, you'll feel a compulsion to tell the truth, to do something real.
In either case, the fissure is both literal and metaphorical, influenced by the unstable world and your actions. Maybe you step through a door, crawl through a crevice, close your eyes, or do something else to take you between here and there. Whatever the case, you find yourself in a room unlike any others you've seen in this distorted world. Well...once you look closer, anyway. On the surface, it may just be another kitchen, ballroom, or cellar.
But in these rooms, it doesn't matter which side of the divide you were on. Not only because you can't see whatever lights the sky, but because they lie between dimensions. There are no windows and no doors; you'll only find walls the same mottled gray as everything else in this place. Attacking them gets you nowhere. Any damage is there and gone, like the erased moments between flashes of a strobe light. There is no easy way out.
But there is a mirror. Hairline cracks run through its surface, shattering a single reflection into multitudes. Set in an ash-gray frame like so many others, it's left somewhere in the room, whether hanging on a wall, haphazard on the floor, or leaning against some furniture. It emanates the skin-prickling sensation of being watched. Turning away doesn't help; you can feel it gazing at your back.
The haunted feeling only subsides when you stare back. And you should stare back, because these mirrors are your escape route. Staring into them will reveal someone on the other side with the same predicament. Surprisingly, you can hear each other when you speak. It even comes translated if you don't speak the same language, although your mouths still sync to your native tongues. It's like a poorly dubbed movie.
Touching the mirror gives you the impression it's somehow leeching off you, trying to fill those cracks. Try to pull your hand away and you'll find it's a little difficult, like unsticking your tongue from a cold pole. Moreover, you'll feel a compulsion to tell the truth, to do something real.
THE GREAT ESCAPE.
For those of you left behind where the sun and moon still shine, keep an eye on your own mirrors, especially broken ones that seem to be influenced by something invisible. They display a room that most decidedly isn't your own, acting more like a window than a mirror. And whoever's inside, trapped, might call on you for help. You won't be able to hear them, though, so how are you with body language?
Meanwhile, for escapees...
No matter how you escape the rooms, you might notice something a little strange once you get back to the labyrinth. Well, stranger. For a brief window of time (one that grows longer with each room you escape), you'll discover the sun and moon occupy the same sky. The area you've entered is a temporary nexus of sorts, one that fuses the dimensions into something that almost seems stable.
It feels right, but the world isn't strong enough to hold itself together for long.
Meanwhile, for escapees...
No matter how you escape the rooms, you might notice something a little strange once you get back to the labyrinth. Well, stranger. For a brief window of time (one that grows longer with each room you escape), you'll discover the sun and moon occupy the same sky. The area you've entered is a temporary nexus of sorts, one that fuses the dimensions into something that almost seems stable.
It feels right, but the world isn't strong enough to hold itself together for long.
locked room (tweaking a few details for variety)
“Oh.” William's voice is cobwebbed from sleep. He winces, sitting up slowly. Reaching for the hat a moment too late, letting it tumble to the floor. The set of his shoulders is off—he moves only his left arm, uses only his left hand. “I thought I might dream, but...” He blinks a few times, looks to the time clock before picking up his mirror—a handheld.
“Who's in there?” Soft, wry. “How're you doing?”
no subject
"Oh, I'm just plum and peaches, thank you for asking." The choice in words might seem a little scathing on paper, but Ben's voice is soft and perplexed, teetering in genuine with that intention of thanks.
(And then Ben curses himself; what he would give for one fresh produce, just one.)
"I'm— Ben." It feels odd, having such a casual sort of exchange in a situation like this. "I'm in some dreadful room; not a door, window, or even a mouse hole in a wall."
But that's when it occurs to Ben — that they can speak, through their fractured mirrors. That isn't typical (then again, what here could possibly be considered 'typical'?) which...gives Ben a foreboding feeling.
"...What about you?" Let him guess: stuck in an impossible room, too? Please, say it isn't so.
no subject
“I'm in a gym.” He looks up and around, steps off the mat to stroll to half court. There's a host of details—are they worth sharing? No exits, but he's used to that by now. Less pungent than he'd expect, no reek of stale sweat. “It's, uh, seen better days.” He stops where he is, gaze ticking off to the side and then back to the other man as he replays what was said. Squares it with Ben's general demeanor.
“Are you claustrophobic?” Abrupt, but not harsh. Verging on sympathetic.
no subject
A gym? Ben is envious. Better than this awkwardly assembled, uncomfortably raw-looking room. Is it possible to trade places? He isn't sure he could lie on the sofa here without it falling apart. Just as well, it looks terribly musty.
"I sympathize." On the seen better days part. Ben leans in inspectingly, trying to catch any glimpses from William's backdrop. A school gym, it looks like to him — which is enough to have Ben rescind that internal desire to swap places. Gyms are one thing, but school gyms? That's where awful memories of dodgeball are born.
But William manages to surprise, which is a phenomenon Ben wonders about, specifically how long before his nerves stop reacting to anything with surprise from the excessive stimuli. "Oh, well..." Ben seems taken by the question, and it's difficult to say where his reaction comes from. "It's ah...unsettling, a little bit. More than anything, the impending sense of doom that comes from being trapped in a room with no discernible way out." No food, no air circulation, no way of knowing if the walls are designed to close in like that awful scene from Star Wars... It's primarily being disaster-minded as an entire, general human being. Nice to meet you.
"So if you're some kind of dimension-hopping wizard, now would be a fantastic time to let us know."
no subject
“Not even a garden-variety wizard.” He offers a wry little smile. There's a why lurking behind the answer, a what do you know, but instead of asking he sets the mirror down a moment, picks his hat up off the floor. Knocks the dust off on his leg, then settles it on his head. It's too big, sends his eyes into shadow.
“We have very different ideas of doom,” he says, picking up his mirror again. Voice thoughtful because he is thinking about it—the chaos of battle. Waking up with a sick sensation of satisfaction, knowing it is and isn't his. The feeling, the twist in his gut, upon finding the hat currently on his head. He understands a little better, maybe.
Doors are closing all the time.
“I cut one of these open. Right when I got here.” William gestures vaguely with the hand holding the mirror—hard to convey “outside” when there's no outside in sight. “It didn't...” A twitch in his expression, his mouth softening into a frown. He taps the surface with a finger—tentative, as though expecting it to spark. “React like a mirror.”
no subject
He has to scoff finally, under an uneven smile, head hanging down for a moment before swinging back up to look at the cowboy-hatted gentleman. "Ah, don't you worry, I have all varieties of doom in mind most days." Everything from omens, to calamity, to bad traffic. Ben treats all forms of doom equally.
Ben recalls the mirror falling to pieces like wet paper, in the middle of a conversation with someone — started the daylights out of him, too, and not only because that isn't how physics works. The ominous void left behind on the wall had been...unsettling. It felt far too malicious in the moment.
"Nothing about these mirrors are very typical," Ben agrees, tilting his head to look over the edging of his own. "And unlike the others, these ones let us communicate." And when their rooms allow nothing else — not so much as a crack in a wall — Ben has to question if it's almost too obvious of a detail, these mirrors.
Yet, this world doesn't necessarily feel intentionally subversive. Just...fluid.
"That must be significant." But what can they communicate to each other that's so important?
no subject
William wonders what its source is, whether there's an optimist out there who's been left off-kilter. And he peels his finger from the mirror, gaze snapping from Ben to his own side of the glass. “A conduit,” he says, staring fixedly at the cracks, but—accurate as he thinks that is, it feels beside the point. Gravity doesn't apply here. Neither does time. Why should logic—why should they be able to reason and define their way out?
William hesitates, scratches at the back of his neck with the mirror still in hand. “Can I ask you a question you're probably not gonna like?” He sounds apologetic but not apologetic enough. Curious, his words in a tumble. “Why do you talk like that? Don't say, 'Like what.'”
no subject
Ben's face thoroughly refreshes, blinking back into a blankness. He blinks, and it's almost embarrassingly obvious: he certainly doesn't know where a question like that comes from. Ben was all sorts of prepared to make it out of this conundrum, and then...the conversation takes a very true left turn on him.
He's caught wondering why it qualifies for the category of 'questions he probably won't like.' One can feel the absolute presence of the quickly sprouted and half-formed 'like what' ready on Ben's tongue, only to wither instantly under the sharp daylight it was raised up under.
"All right then; what do you mean?" Well. He didn't say it, did he?