logsinthenight | INTRO LOG: JULY

INTRO LOG: JULY

characters: everyone.
location: the harbor, as well as the rest of town.
date/time: july 1-3.
content: beacon's newest batch of residents arrives on the ferry. winters, will, and rastus introduce themselves and explain the situation.
warnings: n/a.

welcome to beacon.

It's dim, and the room won't stop swaying, gently rocking you back and forth. A loud sound startles you fully awake, a deep, moaning call: a foghorn. As your eyes adjust, you note faint red light streaking through the room from a tiny, round window.

You've found yourself in a private room, lying on a bed. The last things you remember are the events that led up to your death. Beside you is a folded tablet and a lantern that glows steadily with a healthy flame.

You're on a ship. And that ship is docking.

Making your way to the deck, and eventually the pier, you find only moonlight to greet you, and a dark forest beyond. There are other people here, each with their own unique lantern, and many of them look just as lost as you are. On the ferry you've just disembarked from, the speaker system begins to play a song.

In the distance, across the waters of the lake, you can see the tall silhouette of a lighthouse, its red light slowly turning.

•••
Winters and Will are waiting for you on the beach. Winters flags you down from where he's standing atop a large rock, surveying the gathering crowd. Will stands next to him, though he's monkeying with his tablet and looks rather bored. He barely looks up as Winters speaks:

"First thing's first: I'm sorry you're here. There's no easy way to break this news, so let's just get it over with, hm? You're dead. Or, ah, you've died. Call this the afterlife if you want, or don't if that ain't your thing, but point is, you're here 'cause you died. Those are the facts.

This world's dead, too. You've noticed by now it's pretty dark, yeah? That's 'cause there's no life here, not anymore. And that lantern you've got? That's your life, so to speak. The flame goes out, you die, and vice versa. Keep it close. Should be easy enough to remember on account of how the sun don't rise. You'll need something to see by.

This place is called Beacon, and that's Lake Red Jacket. Town's 'bout a mile down the road, and we've got a bonfire there, but that's the only other light you'll see in this place. Save for the moon and all, though the sky won't do you much good out in the woods. I'll let Rastus explain the bonfire to y'all.

Ah, right. I'm Ben Winters—Winters'll do—and this here's Will Ingr— What? For christ's sake, Dr. Will Ingram. Likes to think he's the brains of the operation, as you can see. If you've got questions about these tablets, he's your guy. Rastus tends to the fire, and you'll find him in town. He's married to his job in a way. And you may never've seen a person like him back wherever you came from, but don't make a big fuss over it. He's a nice fellow. Mind your manners.

The three of us are leftovers from past resets. We came here on that ferry just like you, but it's just us left now. 'Sides the Lighthouse Keeper, but it'll be a bit before you get to meet her. She's got control over the town, see, and if she ain't satisfied with a group's performance, they get the axe. Town gets reset. If she pulls a reset on you folks, a couple of you might end up like me and Will here, giving this speech to the next crop."

The red beam of the lighthouse pulses over the group, over the trees. Winters glances up to watch it swing out over the bay.

"But don't hold it against her. Ain't her fault we're in this mess, and we've all got a job to do, including you.

For now, concentrate on accepting your lot, yeah? We're here to answer your questions, but we ain't gonna tell you all there is to know just yet. Some things are best learned on your own, and some of it we just don't want to saddle you with yet. There's a limit to how long we can stay here safely, that's true, but thing is, we do got time. Time enough to play this smart. Do better than the folks before us did. Settle in, make peace, explore a bit if you're up for it. Use these first couple weeks to come to grips. You ain't gonna be any good to the town if you don't sort yourself out before worrying about what comes next.

So listen up: You're dead. You died. Whatever your old life was, it's done now. None of us can go back, so all we've got is forward. Welcome to Beacon. Could be worse, yeah?"

ooc.

Hey there, wonderful players, and welcome to In the Night! For this intro log, all three NPCs will be available for chatting with, whether your character wants to make casual conversation or ask questions about all this. The headers on each NPC toplevel are there for easy reference as to what each of them are responsible for, but you're welcome to go to any NPC for whatever reason. You're welcome to assume your character has overheard any NPC conversation to learn more about the game. After the NPC threads have died down, we'll compile the info learned ICly and add it to the game history page. If your character would contribute something specific to the game history records, let us know!

DELIVERIES

The following packages can be found in the cargo hold:

The monthly store restock

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Attempt to, at any rate. At worst, I can turn them into rags for an eventual workshop I intend to build.

[It isn't because of sentiment. It certainly isn't. That would be pathetic.]

I don't suppose you have any interest in mechanical arts?

An interest, yes. ⟪ She tilts her head. ⟫ Though it will be your area of expertise and one in which I have more to learn than I even have the room to express.

⟪ A pause, she does want to... not just help, but see. ⟫

Given clear instruction, I can put mine own skills to use, should you wish. ⟪ She lifts a hand to the shadows cast by her own lantern, and shapes them into a hammer, reshapes them into a slimmer tool the likes she's seen used to tighten the screws on wagon wheels. If Rosalind should attempt to touch the shadow-thing, it'll be warm but solid, just as it should be. ⟫

Oh--

[Well, that's new. Interesting, too, if the way she's suddenly paying far more mind is any indication. Rosalind turns more fully towards her companion, reaching out to brush her fingers against the hammer.]

And how would you define your skills, precisely? What can you make?

⟪ The shift in focus is quite obvious to Melisandre, who has spent many a paranoid year in her early life trying to avoid such a thing on her person, but now, she doesn't mind. ⟫

I am what is called a Shadowbinder. ⟪ No need to insult Ros' intelligence by explaining how very literal that term is. ⟫ There are ends to it, of course, and most all of it is temporary ⟪ there's an 'unless' hovering that she won't seem to get into now ⟫ but most tools ought to not be a problem.

And how long is temporary, precisely? But these would serve very well as temporary helpers . . .

[She takes the hammer, lifting it up to examine it more fully.]

⟪ It has a weight to it, the shadow hammer, though it's not quite what a real tool of the size would weigh. At any rate, the question has her pause just a little. ⟫

You keep time more precisely in your world, I gather? ⟪ That's a 'beats me' if she's ever said one. ⟫ Something this small can be kept up for quite a while, hours if necessary. It is bound to my presence, however.

To what distance?

[She stands, ignoring the rush of blood to her legs.]

We don't have much area right now. Is it a few feet, or can I manage to be across town?

My lady, ⟪ an assumption based on how well-spoken she is, how decisive ⟫ I do not know you well enough to entrust you with a potential weapon anywhere out of my sight, not if the weapon calls my name to anyone who knows my ways.

⟪ It does answer the question, though: she doesn't need to see it, and the span of the town doesn't seem to be a problem, either. ⟫

[Her mouth twitches in quiet amusement.]

Fair enough, I suppose. What do you mean, calls your name?

Shadowbinding is a rare art.

⟪ Rare and a little sinister and contained, for the most part, to the people of Asshai. ⟫

Anyone from my world who knows I am here would immediately associate me with it.

Can you teach it?

[Priorities.]

⟪ Her eyes seem brighter at the question, and the ruby flashes – as far as it can, without spreading light. ⟫

Of course. ⟪ It's not the teaching that's the problem. ⟫ To one who is willing to give her mind and body to the art of it?

It depends on what you mean by giving my body and mind to it. An oath of faith? Mutilation? Or something else?

It depends on how far one goes. Faith is required for some of it –– visions are granted by R'hllor and his fire, not even all otherwise devout believers receive them.

⟪ She worries her lip. ⟫ Shadowbinding... It goes deep. It brings on a change inside a person.

What kind of change?

[Because she isn't necessarily ruling it out, not yet. She's dead. What does she care if she's a bit mutilated?]

I would be lying if I claimed to be entirely human. ⟪ Oh, that is vague. ⟫

Shadowbinding is based in energy –– a spinning wheel makes a carriage go, but the wheel can take damage if the load is too heavy, and some only notice once it is broken beyond repair. Or, in another direction: too much energy and the wheels spin out of control, never a kind thing to whoever sits in the carriage and hoped not to die.

⟪ She tilts her head. ⟫ I am not averse to teaching, but the ways I was taught often rely on two bodies. ⟪ Oh yeah, that's a Thing. ⟫

[That's--]

There are quite a few ways two bodies can interact.

[You gotta be more specific, Mel, although she's a fairly good idea of what she's getting at, but. You know what they say about assuming (it's a stupid thing to do).]

⟪ She tilts her head. ⟫

And one of those ways allows for the generation of energy. There is great power in the joining of two persons, the power to make light –– and the power to make shadow. 'tis not necessary for any act of shadowbinding, but especially once one moves away from theory, the toll is often too high on a beginner to create much by themselves.

[That tells her absolutely nothing, and yet doesn't actually dissuade her from what her mind is inclined towards? But doesn't tell her enough to make a definitive guess, god damn it.]

Specifics, please. I'm asking what precise kind of joining you mean. I'd like to make an informed decision before we-- if we-- if I were to learn from you.

⟪ She wishes there was more light – part of her wonders if she's perhaps made Rosalind blush. At any rate, she is strongly reminded of a person from home she's come to be quite fond of, which does nothing to dissuade her. ⟫

I am speaking of pleasures of the most human kind. ⟪ She's plenty familiar with the word 'fuck', though she has yet to learn to use it as a casual term, okay. ⟫ Ah... coupling? Bedding, bedding is more politely used.

Ah.

[Well. That wasn't so hard, was it? No. There it is: she really is talking about that. Which is perfectly natural, and honestly not a shock, aren't there any number of religions whose rituals involve sexual interaction? Yes. Surely, yes, she's certain she's read on them-- Babylon and Aphrodite, yes, she'd scoffed when she'd read that ritual, and of course the Romans had a thousand, she can come up with at least three on the fly, and anyway all this to say that yes, it isn't wildly out of left field, there's really nothing to fuss over--

--and that's true. That's very true.

It's the other bit that catches.

Because, see, Edwardian times weren't so keen on that kind of thing, spoken of with guilty laughs and nudges and winks. Columbia, that false paradise, was even worse. People were set into a slotted position, told what kinds of people they were allowed to socialize with, who was allowed and who wasn't, rigid racial lines, class lines, distinctions between us and them. And if you broke through those lines, if you were odd or different or just not like us, well--

In England, you'd be shunned. In Columbia . . . they had a far more direct way of dealing with it. And they certainly ensured it wouldn't happen twice.

And she couldn't be those things, because of course Madam Lutece was perfect, or at least untouchable. Eccentric, sure, what kind of woman scientist wasn't a bit odd? But ordinary, all the time. Not sexualized, or at least as non-sexual as she could manage, though there are always jokes that dog at her heels, because there's no man alive who knows how to look at a woman without sexualizing her. Cold, and kind of a bitch, but still so ordinary. She wears all the latest fashions and speaks the right way and comes from good stock, so she's allowed to get away with all her scientific eccentricities.

Love doesn't matter. Relationships don't matter. Sex with a man is constantly out of the question unless she keeps it a deadly secret, and she's only ever trusted one man with it. And sex with a woman--

You just don't think about things like that.]

Right.

[She swallows thickly, and it isn't really with embarrassment. Not the kind that affects schoolgirls and adolescent boys. She's not prudish, not the way people think; she regularly fucks her-- well, herself, frankly, if you want to think about it that way, although of course she'd huffed when Robert had drawled that masturbation joke out. It's just that this is something that isn't-- she's never--

She just doesn't think about it, that's all. Why? She has (had) Robert; she was content. What more did she need? Nothing. Any loneliness or uncertain feelings of her youth were put aside, all well and good, and it's nothing here and now, but this woman is suggesting--

How does she even begin to respond to something like that? So casually said, out in public, and she realizes her throat has closed, her eyes fractionally wider as she stares at the other woman. In public, where anyone might hear, and yet it doesn't matter here, does it? No. No, and yet still she has to fight to keep her heart from racing, to keep her tongue from lashing out sharply, icily denouncing her, distancing herself, because god help her if someone hears, what they'll do, they'll ruin her, destroy her, it'd be--]

. . . perhaps this is a discussion best concluded indoors.

⟪ It is the moment of silence which has Melisandre catching on –– of course, this is not a Temple in Essos, where it is as part of everyday life (for those who choose to pursue such things) as breathing and prayer.

Westeros had been different. Westeros had been so radically different, so radically in denial of any desires that it had, at times, felt like suffocating. The King wanted her, in his bed and in his tent and in her own chambers, and yet the shame he felt had him lashing out at her every bit as often as he drew her closer.

And she knows what the Faith of the Seven thinks of attractions between men and men, women and women. One more reason to denounce their hateful, heathen ways –– but denouncing won't help the hurt it causes in a human soul. She inclines her head. ⟫

I do not wish to make you uncomfortable. ⟪ And hey, in Westeros, she'd have been called a whore twice over, so this is , by all means, going well in Melisandre's eyes. ⟫ I have taken up residence in a quiet room within the church –– unless you wish to go somewhere else?

No, you-- I'm perfectly all right.

[Always fine, even when she isn't. Distantly, she appreciates the sentiment for what it is. she's almost certain Melisandre means it, too: there's no malice in her gaze, no smirking delight for the tone this conversation has taken. And though the sensible thing would be to deny it entirely, to pull away and flatly reject her (and Rosalind is certain she'd let her get away with it, none of this has ever been involuntary), she feels a quiet panic at the thought of leaving.

What she says next is enough to make her laugh, a quiet huff that sounds equal parts amused and scoffing. In the church, oh, god, yes, why not? Why not discuss this in the very place Comstock had left his mark? She might sputter out something ridiculous if she wasn't in control, but she is (and she always is), and so simply nods sharply.]

I do believe the church will suit our purposes.

[She stands. Waits for her companion to do the same, but she won't speak again until the doors are firmly closed behind them. Even then, she glances around, checking for open windows, hidden panels, places where they might be watched. It's a natural action, more muscle memory than proper thought. She's used to it.]

Such things are-- were-- punishable by death in the place I once resided. Among other . . . hm. Perversions, I believe they were called.

[Columbia was so gross.]

⟪ Melisandre stands as well, and she makes sure to keep a proper distance from Rosalind, to avoid furthering any discomfort. She is direct, yes, in her way quite the same way as her companion, but there is a difference to her between directness and causing intentional pains.

Once in the church, Melisandre will guide her to her room –– away from the main chapel, it's quiet and secluded, the door is good and sturdy. She stops for a moment, muttering something by the doorframe. ⟫

'tis a shadow to prevent someone from walking in. You are safely excluded from its ways, so you can freely leave at any point.

⟪ Otherwise, the room is spartan. A futon for a bed, a number of blankets and pillows. A footstool-turned table and two seating cushions, a carafe of water, two newly-acquired mugs. Noting the way Rosalind looks about the room, as if searching for any holes a spy could use, she crosses over to lower the improvised curtains. She is about to pour the water –– ⟫

Would you rather have tea?

⟪ Blessed be this place, for tea is available, even if it comes in odd little bags. She gestures for Rosalind to seat herself by the makeshift table. ⟫

In Westeros –– not the lands I was raised in, but the lands I died in –– things weren't much kinder. Geldings for men, shaming and rapes for women –– ⟪ for a moment, there is rage in her red eyes, but it subsides quickly enough. ⟫ And lynchings, those too. Men in power fear desires, and most faiths are all the worse for it.

My own god sees nothing perverse in pleasure or desire, not if it is answered in kind. I have been a priestess for so long a time that it is easy to fall into those patterns of thinking, and forget of the hurt others have suffered for it. For myself, it feels quite natural, truly blessed even, to desire both men and women –– ⟪ she tilts her head ⟫ I was not always lucky with freedom, really, this is the first time I am able to make my own choices, and it is in death, but in this one way, I could be myself at most times.

INTRO LOG: JULY

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i am REALLY sorry

ARE YOU

TINY BIT

1/2 and now it's me who is sorry, kind of, also CW for period-typical prejudices

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