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I WILL NEVER FADE.
WHO: Everyone in game.
WHAT: The second half of our first event, plus a new area to explore.
WHERE: Anywhere in the world core and, where relevant, the ruins.
WHEN: After the escape rooms.
NOTES: Expect surreal horror and possible violence. Please use common sense when warning for other content.
WHAT: The second half of our first event, plus a new area to explore.
WHERE: Anywhere in the world core and, where relevant, the ruins.
WHEN: After the escape rooms.
NOTES: Expect surreal horror and possible violence. Please use common sense when warning for other content.
Image by Interstellar
THOUGH I WILL DISAPPEAR.
So you escaped... Or maybe not. Or maybe you just got here. Either way, no matter where you are, there comes a time when you inexplicably feel something shift. Nearby mirrors heal any cracks and turn into liquid silver at your feet. But the silver doesn't flee from you this time; instead, it stretches in every direction. The entire floor becomes a mirror, with you (and anyone else) at its center.
It doesn't reflect whatever's above you, however. Instead, it shows you a sky, based on your current or last location; sunsiders will see a perfect blue sky with white clouds, while moonsiders see a flawless starry night. Even if you can't see it, you can feel it, like you can feel it slide through a time-lapse day-night cycle as the walls around you dissolve. Because, you realize, this isn't just a pretty reflection. It's a memory. Not yours, but a memory of something that once existed in the very place you stand.
And then, surrounded by sky on all sides, the memory becomes real.
For a moment, everything is eerily still...and then the faux sun and moon appear overhead. Time bends, speeding up in eddies around you, while you yourself seem to slow. The sun and moon spiral around each other, like warped reflections, before they collide and burst into bands of light.
The sky above and below fractures like glass. It reminds you, perhaps, of how many mirrors you have (or haven't) broken. The world collapses into darkness and you see an abyss so vast it loses its depth, with only a luminous halo to give it form. It's somehow visible whether your eyes are open or closed (or if you don't have them at all), like an afterimage seared into memory. It's unlike anything you've seen that emits light. In fact, it might devour it.
You can no longer see the mirror beneath your feet, but you feel it buck and crumble, violently rearranging itself into a new form. It casts you into space and you hang there for an instant, weightless.
And then you fall.
It doesn't reflect whatever's above you, however. Instead, it shows you a sky, based on your current or last location; sunsiders will see a perfect blue sky with white clouds, while moonsiders see a flawless starry night. Even if you can't see it, you can feel it, like you can feel it slide through a time-lapse day-night cycle as the walls around you dissolve. Because, you realize, this isn't just a pretty reflection. It's a memory. Not yours, but a memory of something that once existed in the very place you stand.
And then, surrounded by sky on all sides, the memory becomes real.
For a moment, everything is eerily still...and then the faux sun and moon appear overhead. Time bends, speeding up in eddies around you, while you yourself seem to slow. The sun and moon spiral around each other, like warped reflections, before they collide and burst into bands of light.
The sky above and below fractures like glass. It reminds you, perhaps, of how many mirrors you have (or haven't) broken. The world collapses into darkness and you see an abyss so vast it loses its depth, with only a luminous halo to give it form. It's somehow visible whether your eyes are open or closed (or if you don't have them at all), like an afterimage seared into memory. It's unlike anything you've seen that emits light. In fact, it might devour it.
You can no longer see the mirror beneath your feet, but you feel it buck and crumble, violently rearranging itself into a new form. It casts you into space and you hang there for an instant, weightless.
And then you fall.
AND JOIN THE STREET PARADE.
As you fall, a voice crackles in the dark. It might take you a moment (or much longer, given how distorted it is) before you realize it's your own, projected through a radio. It runs through basic greetings and stock phrases, before it's suddenly interrupted by the crunch of something beneath your feet.
You don't remember ever landing. But if you reach down, you'll find a thin layer of ice, fracturing under your weight. It becomes more visible by the second, as the darkness fades away. Somewhere, your voice says, "Thank you."
The rotting dimensions, along with the sun and moon, are gone. Instead, everyone will find themselves in the same place, under a massive blot in the sky. It looks more like a perfect circle of spilled ink than anything dimensional; it seems to absorb light instead of casting it, similar to the abyss you saw. Yet somehow it gives the illusion of twilight as the storm finally calms, like a giant returning to its slumber. The ground stops rumbling. Buildings slow their decaying ascent as the blot inches its way across the mimicry of a sky, like it belongs there. Given enough time, it rises and sets, though the crepuscular lighting never seems to change.
The flooded buildings are covered with a thin layer of ice, no matter the temperature indoors. It warms up outdoors, but it's snowing at a steady, almost peaceful pace; large flakes drift one way and then another, like a child's snow globe. They cover the ground in a thick blanket, unbroken besides whatever paths you trail through it.
The shadows, unfathomable as always, leave no footsteps.
You don't remember ever landing. But if you reach down, you'll find a thin layer of ice, fracturing under your weight. It becomes more visible by the second, as the darkness fades away. Somewhere, your voice says, "Thank you."
The rotting dimensions, along with the sun and moon, are gone. Instead, everyone will find themselves in the same place, under a massive blot in the sky. It looks more like a perfect circle of spilled ink than anything dimensional; it seems to absorb light instead of casting it, similar to the abyss you saw. Yet somehow it gives the illusion of twilight as the storm finally calms, like a giant returning to its slumber. The ground stops rumbling. Buildings slow their decaying ascent as the blot inches its way across the mimicry of a sky, like it belongs there. Given enough time, it rises and sets, though the crepuscular lighting never seems to change.
The flooded buildings are covered with a thin layer of ice, no matter the temperature indoors. It warms up outdoors, but it's snowing at a steady, almost peaceful pace; large flakes drift one way and then another, like a child's snow globe. They cover the ground in a thick blanket, unbroken besides whatever paths you trail through it.
The shadows, unfathomable as always, leave no footsteps.
HALF SICK OF SHADOWS.
The shadows' strange behavior gets stranger once the earthquakes cease. Instead of aimlessly wandering around, they sometimes gather at the thresholds that keep them outdoors, twitching and contorting as they sway rooted to the spot. And it's clear, once you draw near: They're waiting for you.
They swivel as one, bodies distorted, and slither-walk-climb towards you. They reach out with hooks and arms and claws, beckoning with an inexorable determination.
They won't attack when in this state; they just pursue. Contact seems to be the name of the game, which doesn't seem like the greatest plan when a glancing touch burns like ice. But stand still long enough and one of them will try to attach itself to you, as if it could melt into your flesh.
It's painful. And, well, experimenting with this could very well give you frostbite.
Longer term contact gives the impression of longing and a vast universe, as if something always lies just beyond the horizon. Like a thousand tiny synapses, you feel how small you are, lost in a sea so much bigger than yourself. It lasts only until you shake the shadow off.
As soon as you divest yourself of the shadow, it steals your silhouette for a handful of seconds, before dissolving. Afterwards, it feels like you can't stop seeing little flickers of movement out of the corner of your eyes. It may last for hours. If you're really unfortunate, they last for days.
They swivel as one, bodies distorted, and slither-walk-climb towards you. They reach out with hooks and arms and claws, beckoning with an inexorable determination.
They won't attack when in this state; they just pursue. Contact seems to be the name of the game, which doesn't seem like the greatest plan when a glancing touch burns like ice. But stand still long enough and one of them will try to attach itself to you, as if it could melt into your flesh.
It's painful. And, well, experimenting with this could very well give you frostbite.
Longer term contact gives the impression of longing and a vast universe, as if something always lies just beyond the horizon. Like a thousand tiny synapses, you feel how small you are, lost in a sea so much bigger than yourself. It lasts only until you shake the shadow off.
As soon as you divest yourself of the shadow, it steals your silhouette for a handful of seconds, before dissolving. Afterwards, it feels like you can't stop seeing little flickers of movement out of the corner of your eyes. It may last for hours. If you're really unfortunate, they last for days.
COME ALL YE.
With the world's impromptu upheaval, there are new stairwells in the core. They're striking because of one feature and one feature alone: There is moss growing on them. They're the first sign of something else truly alive in this world, something that isn't alien to it.
Stepping foot inside makes the ground eat up the exit behind you, swallowing you down and guiding you through a long descent...or ascent. If you're lucky, it transitions to a level hall; if not, well, you have your work cut out for you. It isn't a short walkâroughly around an hour, though it might seem longer or shorter, depending on your company.
Regardless of whether you enter the stairwells with someone else or alone, navigating them is a tricky business. Sometimes, the paths fork off in different directions. If your friend (however loosely you may use the word) gets too far ahead of you, it's possible the maze will warp and split you up completely. On the other hand, you never know when you'll round a corner right into someone else.
Unlike the halls, which are largely clear of debris, there's old detritus all along the floor. Some of it's garbage like dirty plastic wrappers and bottles, while other times there are bones. They crumble to dust at a touch.
There are other artifacts, increasingly archaic. It's like stepping through time, as if you were digging through the earth to find things that died before you. If you look closely at the walls, you might even think there are fossils embedded in them.
Stepping foot inside makes the ground eat up the exit behind you, swallowing you down and guiding you through a long descent...or ascent. If you're lucky, it transitions to a level hall; if not, well, you have your work cut out for you. It isn't a short walkâroughly around an hour, though it might seem longer or shorter, depending on your company.
Regardless of whether you enter the stairwells with someone else or alone, navigating them is a tricky business. Sometimes, the paths fork off in different directions. If your friend (however loosely you may use the word) gets too far ahead of you, it's possible the maze will warp and split you up completely. On the other hand, you never know when you'll round a corner right into someone else.
Unlike the halls, which are largely clear of debris, there's old detritus all along the floor. Some of it's garbage like dirty plastic wrappers and bottles, while other times there are bones. They crumble to dust at a touch.
There are other artifacts, increasingly archaic. It's like stepping through time, as if you were digging through the earth to find things that died before you. If you look closely at the walls, you might even think there are fossils embedded in them.
HAVING AN AVERAGE WEEKEND.
Once you finally step out of the ancient labyrinth, you'll find yourself in a brand new location, jarringly green and wild, ancient and strange, new and beautiful. You've found the ruins.
While it might seem smaller than the core, it's impossible to get a sense of scale. The world starts to look flat when so much of it's the same colors. It's difficult to see far in most locations, with the way trees knit themselves over the landscape. It feels vitally alive, however, if oddly still. It's also quiet, with the sounds of life muffled by vegetation.
Animals roam the ruins, but they're elusive; those you do encounter are aggressive or fearful towards humans. Mammals and invertebrates are common, while amphibians are uncommon; reptiles are rare, and birds even rarer. Anything larger than a medium-sized dog is an unusual sight, especially within the ruins themselves.
You may notice some strange markings and carvings, all in an unknown script. No translation magic will work on them. The strange little messages are rare, but if your eyes slide across something just right, they might find something carved, painted, smeared, or scratched into a random surface.
Radios function well in this area, despite the plant matter usually creating interference. They tend to turn on even when you're not using them, though they don't play any sound without your help. Instead, it's possible to hear the soft hiss of white noise across the ruins.
Notably, there is currently no day-night cycle, but it does sometimes get brighter or darker. This doesn't seem to follow a set clock, however, and whether it's influenced by the rising or setting of a sun at all is unknown.
While it might seem smaller than the core, it's impossible to get a sense of scale. The world starts to look flat when so much of it's the same colors. It's difficult to see far in most locations, with the way trees knit themselves over the landscape. It feels vitally alive, however, if oddly still. It's also quiet, with the sounds of life muffled by vegetation.
Animals roam the ruins, but they're elusive; those you do encounter are aggressive or fearful towards humans. Mammals and invertebrates are common, while amphibians are uncommon; reptiles are rare, and birds even rarer. Anything larger than a medium-sized dog is an unusual sight, especially within the ruins themselves.
You may notice some strange markings and carvings, all in an unknown script. No translation magic will work on them. The strange little messages are rare, but if your eyes slide across something just right, they might find something carved, painted, smeared, or scratched into a random surface.
Radios function well in this area, despite the plant matter usually creating interference. They tend to turn on even when you're not using them, though they don't play any sound without your help. Instead, it's possible to hear the soft hiss of white noise across the ruins.
Notably, there is currently no day-night cycle, but it does sometimes get brighter or darker. This doesn't seem to follow a set clock, however, and whether it's influenced by the rising or setting of a sun at all is unknown.
PAST AND FUTURE RUINS.
Welcome to the ruins! Some quick things to remember:
- The archive is OOC knowledge only; characters need to ICly learn info through trial and error. Or gossip.
- It's impossible to see the sky overhead, but sunlight does make it down somehow.
- All plant life, including those in the archive, glow if an area is dark enough.
- All flora and fauna, including those in the archive, bleed black. Many of them may also smell of rot.
- Attempting to remove a living organism from the ruins will kill it. Removing anything with special properties will nullify those properties, unless they're treated (boiled, cooked, etc) first.
- You can handwave something's existence if it's generic, not permanent or recurring, and won't interfere with other players' fun (e.g., random fruit trees, nondescript rodents, general weather).
( RUINS: EXPLORATION | ARCHIVE )
carver hawke | dragon age | ota
[An open path is an opportunity. He's still focused on getting out, on getting home, so when he finds the new stairwell with something like life clinging to its edges, he takes it, without hesitation.
He's not one of the lucky ones, though; the stairwell never flattens out, and it's a slow, trudging climb to get to— wherever the hell this is going, some twisting labyrinth that doesn't make any sense. If you cross paths with him on the climb, Carver will treat you like a de facto party member:
( a ) If he knows you by sight already, he'll stick close, one hand raised in a silent half-salute. There's something like solidarity, in diving into this bullshit together.
( b ) If he doesn't, he won't engage directly, but he will trail at a short distance; either behind, if you're quick, or ahead, if you aren't. It might have the unintended consequence of being kind of creepy, in a place like this.
( c ) If at any point you stop, or slow down, or need to take a break, Carver will stop, too. He'll double-back, whether you're familiar or not. (You don't leave people behind in the Deep Roads, and this blighted place is close enough to count.)
When he reaches you, he'll offer you a walkie-talkie from his pack: clunky and small, obviously for a child, with a cheap paintjob in army camouflage.
What? He's been around the block. He knows how this goes.]
ii. don't forget to loot the bodies
[In the end, it's worth it, because the green place on the other side is so much better. It's familiar in the way that almost everything in the core isn't. He can survive. He can hunt. At least out here, he doesn't feel so out of his depth.
He is, incidentally, also very used to clearing out whole swaths of giant spiders, when the situation calls for it.
He gets caught by a handful of them at the edges of the trees, but it doesn't matter. He hardly flinches when they drop, chittering, from the canopy, and he definitely doesn't hesitate when he catches one flat across the abdomen with the bladed edge of his maul. The hard exoskeleton splits, and the thing goes limp, spindly legs twitching and guts spilling fluorescent out into the dirt.
Some of the others scatter back into the brush. The ones that are left don't fare much better than the first.
When it's done, he leans back on his heels, and wipes sweat from his forehead with the inside of his elbow. (The air is cool here, but it's still humid, and gross for it.) He waits, and when the spiders don't dissolve or reform or pull themselves back to wholeness, he grunts, satisfied.]
About time something around here died like it was supposed to.
iii. maintenance mode
[Here's the issue, though: he's used to just sort of letting whatever— collateral that comes from smashing up a bunch of spiders land where it may, to be cleaned up later. Usually that's fine, except when the spider guts are corrosive and acidic and start to eat through even the professional finish of your breastplate.
He's not without his armor often, too paranoid to leave it somewhere and have it go missing the moment he takes his eyes off it, but, well. It won't matter if it snaps down the middle in a fight later, so here he is, at the edge of the river, buffing out surface corrosion and swearing up a storm. Language barriers be damned; tone is probably enough to carry, here.]
Blighted— bloody— piece of shit—
iv. bird rights
[You'll have to sneak up on him for this one, either on purpose or accident. Once he finds the crystal cave the first time, once he realizes what it is, he never goes back when he thinks someone else might catch him there. Sometimes, though, rarely— he finds opportunities to go there by himself, to just... stand in there and look at what the crystals reflect back.
There's no catharsis, or outpouring of grief. The scars are too old, for that. If anything, he's very stoic, arms folded in something approximating a loose parade rest. He doesn't like to move, doesn't like to see them copy him like they're puppets on strings tied to his wrists and elbows.
He just— it can be hard to remember what they looked like, sometimes, after so many years. He wants to remember. So he'll stand here, sometimes, and remind himself.]
v. wildcard
[Got something else in mind? Hit me!]
iii.
[Sure, he's older than her, but he doesn't completely act like it. Ellie takes this as a sign that he's a fun adult, not an immature one, because what the fuck would she know. She's prone to give knights-- excuse her, grey wardens-- the benefit of the doubt.]
[He looks strange without all his armor on. He also looks distracted. She aims an arrow to hit right next to him, landing in the sandy dirt of the riverbank.]
[She doesn't say anything. She just stands there, a few yards behind him, grinning.]
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— and then he stops, once he sees who it is, half-stooped and rolling his eyes.]
Andraste's tits, Ellie. [He snatches her arrow out of the dirt, and makes what is probably an unfamiliar but unmistakably rude hand gesture.] Piss off.
[Again, one of those things where he's pretty sure tone conveys enough by itself. That is: mostly bluster, without much heat.]
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[She hops over to the riverbank, plucking her arrow out of the dirt, cleaning it off, and slipping it back in her pack (which has a side specially cut out to act as a quiver). Setting it down on a dry rock, she pulls out a radio to translate their speech. She liked Carver's idea of walkies, but she hasn't found any yet, and anyway, hands-free would be good. Turning it on, she grins and settles next to him.]
You're cleaning your armor? Show me how? [It's clear from her tone, the that's so cool is implicit.]
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... Sure. If you want. [A little awkward. He pulls his breastplate back into his lap— then, somewhat belatedly, shifts it so she can see better. Patches of it are covered with the same sandy dirt from the riverbank.] Blighted spiders must have some kind of— poison, or acid, or whatever. See where it's corroded? [He points; beneath the sand, patches of the metal are flaky and discolored.] Leave that alone and it'll bugger up the whole plate. Split right down the middle one day, and then you've got a knife in your heart.
[Or spindly spider leg. Or whatever.]
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[She scratches her head, thinking.] I wonder if gun oil would work. Should still be good. I grabbed some just in case a gun actually showed up in this place.
[From her tone, she's clearly bitter this hasn't yet happened. Still, she grabs an orange bottle out of her pack, label blank but unmistakable if you know what you're looking for.]
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Long as it keeps the water out and doesn't build up in the joints, you won't see me complaining. Nearly out of what I packed before this place felt like detouring me through the bloody Fade. [He squints at the bottle, thoughtful.] You don't need it?
[Going by her tone, anyway. He doesn't know what a gun is but, like, he's not about to admit that right here.]
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[She sits down next to him again, watching him work.]
They're, uh, weapons in my world. Mostly made of metal. And, like, that's metal, too, so it should work.
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[Plain. Straightforward. Metal-and-metal. Why not try?]
I'll know pretty quick if it doesn't, at least. [He swipes back sand from the metal, to inspect his progress.] I've shitted it up enough times to know the difference.
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ii.
So, for a little while, he lets it take him. Lets some of his humanity go, like playing a guide rope out through his fingers; just enough to lose himself in the hunt and forget some of what's going on in this broken place. For a time, it's enough.
The sounds of a fight draw him through the trees. He pauses at the edge of it, watching through the rot-smelling undergrowth as a guy who looks like he just stepped out of a Medieval Times calmly and efficiently dispatches a pack of spiders.
One of the smaller spiders flees in Logan's direction; silently, he pops his claws and pins it to a tree trunk beside his head. The creature's black blood runs down his claws and pools against his knuckles, stinging. He flips the spider's body off his claws into the trees as the knight pauses and mutters to himself. ]
I wouldn't wish too hard for that, bub. [ Logan straightens up as he speaks and sheathes his claws, wincing a little as the spider's corrosive blood is pulled into the wounds in his hand. ] Never know when you're gonna be the one on the other end of it.
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That said— his eyes do linger a little on Logan's hands when the claws retract, curious and fascinated. That's certainly not magic.]
Just a matter of time til it's me. [Matter-of-fact. Accepting the inevitability of your own death comes with the job.] Least I can say it's not right now, and not to these bloody things.
[He kicks the spider corpse over, a rough search for anything that looks like it might be halfway useful. He's not expecting much.]
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Logan examines the spider blood on his fingertips and sniffs it before wiping it off on his leg. He gestures at Carver with a lift of his chin. ]
What's the story with the armor? Expectin' a dragon or somethin'?
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Could be. Wouldn't be the strangest thing to happen around here, would it? [He shrugs. The premise of the question— why armor?— just seems weird to him.] I've got some sense of self-preservation, you know.
[Impending death or not.]
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Can't argue with that. Just as long as you don't.. [ He glances away from Carver suddenly, up at the canopy above them, nostrils flaring. There's something -- or lots of somethings -- moving around up there, coming in fast. ] .. rust up..
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Shit.
[It's more annoyed than stressed; sometimes the things come in waves, that's something he's used to, too. His feet slide out into a wider attack stance, and his grip drops down the hilt of his weapon, leverage he needs to be ready for a low, wide swing. Sharply:]
If you can manage that trick again— [He lets go briefly enough to let his hand flex, demonstrative. Whatever the fuck that was.] Now's the time.
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Glancing up, he pops both sets of claws, the metal sliding out of his hands with a grating snap and not a little blood, which pools on his knuckles and runs down his fingers. ]
Bring it on.
[ The spiders hunt like wolves, albeit smaller and greenish-tinged and with a few too many legs. The pack swarms down from the treetops, chittering and screeching, eager for revenge. ]
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It's good. There's a thrill to it he hasn't felt in a while. He likes to fight, but he'll always like fighting alongside someone better than fighting alone.]
Should've stayed in the hole you crawled out of. [This barked at the spiders. It doesn't matter that they're spiders, he can't help himself.
He lets his swing go, catching the couple that splinter out to go for his left flank: it snaps through the mandible of the first, and clips the front right legs of the second, spinning it out into a tree and giving Carver the opening to crush it under the head of his maul.]
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iv.
...So long as she's not tempted to look at what those crystals show, anyway.
His footsteps are what catch her attention in the first place. The sound of his steps, the rub of metal against metal, the way it stops a ways in, not far from where she's camped out for the evening. In the quiet, she rises up, picking her way between a few of the jutting stones, towards the place the footsteps stopped.]
Hello? Pardon.
[He might catch sight of her reflection before he does her actual body. From this angle, a girl with pink hair and wings--from that, a humanoid figure made entirely of stone. An older woman, sad-eyed. A young man who didn't bother with a shirt before he put on his vest, his hair drifting vaguely up. It goes on and on.]
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But, well, okay, fine. Ruth has some mitigating circumstances.]
Shit. [To himself, mostly, but he doesn't really bother to lower his voice. The one benefit of not speaking a language anyone understands.] My bloody luck.
[He fishes around in his bag for his walkie talkies. He's trying to focus on her and not the reflections that are springing up around her, but it's... hard, with how distinct they are. What a world she must come from.]
Hello. [This he says in English, actually, parroted warily back at her. The sounds of the language aren't that different from his own, and he's picked up enough to know it's a greeting. He's mostly just trying to give her a familiar cue.] Uhhh... Radio?
[He hasn't picked up that many words.]
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Sorry yes. Wasn't sure who it was.
[She waits for the words to translate themselves into something she doesn't really understand.]
I know pardon, I know your voice. Yes. But I don't know your name.
[And she can't remember if it's because she's forgotten or because she never learned it.]
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[If he sounds tense, it's because he is. He can see his own reflection in his periphery, a dark-haired girl with a sweet, unassuming smile, and even if Ruth can't see it, it still makes him feel laid open.]
You're that mage. [Not a mage, she said.] Or— not. [beat] You were sick, before.
[It comes up at the end, like a question. Nice save.]
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[She wants to stay outside of everything he feels--in part out of respect for his privacy, in part because it'll just make her ill again.]
I was. Pardon. I'm--sorry, I'm trying not to be.
[Holding up her cane, hoping that'll explain it.]
Are you yes here for the people?
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No.
[It's a kneejerk reaction: defensive and, yes, a transparent lie. He flushes with embarrassment as soon as it's out of his mouth.]
I'm not— They're not people. [He can't think of them like that, or he'll really lose his mind.] They're just... pictures.
[In a tall crystal on the other side of the room, his brother grins at him, lopsided and smug, and Carver resorts to glaring down at his feet.]
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I know. Sorry. Sorry. Just--yes, they're reminders.
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Reminders. That's a better way of looking at it. It settles him, a little.]
You've got a lot. [He should probably also feel guilty for lobbing it back at her, but...] Are they— like you? People from your [he tries to remember the more precise term she used for it, and gives up] school?
[He still doesn't really like the word 'mutant,' but he understands it better now, seeing them lined up like that.]
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