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

QUICKNAV
comms	\|	network • logs • memes • ooc
pages	\|	rules • faq • taken • mod contact • player contact • calendar • setting • exploration • item requests • full nav

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[If he stops working for any length of time the quiet just keeps stretching all around them- like one great big blanket. Sora isn't a person that's hungry for conflict, he's never made any particular effort to seek out arguments or fights, a chance to claim the higher ground or test his mettle, prove his strength. He's always just allowed himself to be carried along for the ride- looking at those competitions as a game, or even a series of them, these back and forths between the other kids on the island. How could any of it feel dangerous or powerful or risky when they'd all row back to the mainland at the end of the day and walk home along the same rows of houses and hear each other's parents calling that dinner was ready?

Of course the keyblade changed things. Xehanort changed things. But he didn't change it all. Sora hadn't started thirsting for the chance to grow even more powerful and none of the other keyblade wielders found themselves consumed by the desire to possess kingdom hearts. They were all the same people, just changed around the edges- thrust into exceptional circumstances.

It's different with Vanitas. It's different around Vanitas- who even now, when there isn't anything left to win or lose, can't seem to stop needling and poking and prodding.

Sora pauses, one elbow resting on his knee while the opposite hand keeps him propped up against the wood. When he looks over his shoulder at his twin, there's a dry laugh in the corner of his mouth, just resting there.]

Why? Do you have a bigger one?

[ Looking at Sora is easier than looking at his lantern.

Vanitas knows that they're opposite ends of a spectrum. Sora isn't like Ventus, or even Kairi&mdahs; both of them are a kind of pure, undiluted source of light. It shines off of them in waves, and some hungry part of Vanitas can't help turning toward it, but Sora had been the piece that recompleted Ventus' heart. It means that somewhere in him, the darkness lingers.

If he stops to examine it, it's obvious. After all, he'd nearly been taken as one of Xehanort's vessels, and the fact that Vanitas' own darkness had taken root somewhere buried, a prisoner in his chest, is only further evidence. Just because Vanitas wasn't sleeping in that cage anymore didn't mean that all of his darkness was just gone. But that little lamp, it isn't just a light. The glow it casts is warm, and familiar, without any other distraction, like the wry amusement sitting in Sora's expression. It's harder to pretend like he doesn't want to take Sora's lantern for himself when he looks at that light. It's harder to pretend like it doesn't make him feel something other than the ache of his existence.

Vanitas doesn't roll his eyes, but it's a near thing. ]

You'd probably find one if you looked, idiot.

[ Vanitas is sure the general store has something more efficient than that. But he isn't going to help Sora solve his problem— of which, to Vanitas, there are many with this idea of a boat. ]

Do you have some kind of death wish?

[Sora did look, but he also isn't the only person in the whole entire town that wants or needs tools so somebody else could have beaten him to it. And he didn't go raiding every single room at the inn with the hope of finding some treasure because people are already living in them. A smaller one is easier to carry, and it's better to leave the big ones behind in case of an emergency.

All of these are perfectly good reasons and he knows that. But he also knows that arguing the point with Vanitas of all people is just going to run them around in an exasperated circle until they come to blows or until someone leaves. Sora isn't really thinking about trying to claim the moral high ground so much as he doesn't want to stop in the middle of his self-appointed task. And even after he gets the dead pieces off, he still has to try and roll the log into the surf enough that he can drag it the rest of the way, allowing the water to float its weight as Sora leads back to the boathouse. There's no chance he's gonna be able to drag that whole thing after all.

The blade crashes into the wood just deep enough to get lodged there and Sora reaches forward with both hands, pushing his fingers into the narrow crevice he's made and rocking it slowly- working it away from the body of the trunk.]

What does that matter? I mean, we're already dead.

Didn't you learn your lesson yet?

[ It's a hook, even if Sora doesn't see it as much— something for Vanitas to desperately grab hold of and run as far as he possibly can under the belief that he's found the upper hand. That he's found the soft spot in his guard, and can push on it hard. ]

If you keep throwing yourself into the darkness, you aren't going to find your way back out.

[ Steadfastly, Sora doesn't look at him, and instead keeps working at the massive log. It's so big, and that axe is so small, that it'll take a good measure of time before he makes any progress. To Vanitas' eye, it's inefficient. Sora will have to keep chipping away for hours before he whittles this driftwood down into the shape he needs. But the problem is, without any distraction, that it's entirely possible Sora will do it. Don't underestimate him, some of the vessels had said. He's tenacious.

It makes him think of the earnest look on his face when he stood side by side with Ventus, when he kept asking even after Ventus accepted things as they were. Vanitas turns his face away from the hunched shape of the boy and his light and looks out across the water. With the moon only a sliver, there's no horizon to speak of— only a yawning abyss of black and the hush of the waves against the shore. ]

You're not going to have a way to navigate, and when you get lost, you know your friends are just going to come looking for you.

[ He glances out of the corner of his eye, trying to clock Sora's response. ]

Is that what you want to do all over again?

[They don't need the benefit of history and the ins and outs of a friendship; he knows that Vanitas is good at finding sore spots. All of the memories that don't belong to him tell Sora that he has a talent for seeking out the cracks between pieces armor- of working his fingers into splits and crevices and wrenching them open. Finding the raw nerve underneath. He always manages to say all the wrong things, push just wrong buttons. But even with the absence of so many answers, with no explanation that really makes sense to him, there's no hiding from the truth.

Vanitas sees so easily into his heart.

Sora doesn't get a chance to think about not reacting, and he knows as soon as his hand stalls and the axe stays buried deep within the wood that he's given something away. He tries to feel comforted by knowing that even if he'd kept going, even if his shoulders didn't lock up and even if his throat didn't tighten- the ache would still be there. It would still be a heavy squeezing inside his chest.

His head lifts. He listens to the waves rolling quietly against the shore and it doesn't really sound like home, but he still can't decide if that's a good thing. Sora looks up at the moon instead.]

The raft is for all of us. We're gonna explore together.

[ Like a shark scenting blood in the water, Vanitas lunges— grasping after the hesitation and the statement that follows. It doesn't matter how Sora truly means them, that Sora's dedication and his belief of strength in numbers, in his friends, is what pushes him— Vanitas was never taught that narrative. He only knows the other side of it: the gospel of Xehanort and all the ways he'd manipulated the Guardians of Light into doing what he wanted of them. Taking Sora's words and twisting them, turning them back on him, isn't difficult— he's not so different from Ventus, right down at the foundation.

And some part of that was true of all of them, wasn't it? In order for Sora to fill in the pieces Vanitas left behind when he was ripped out of his other half's heart, Sora had to fit seamless into the space that stretched between them. We make a greater whole, Vanitas said, but he's the only one that yearns for that, isn't he?

Vanitas' laugh is a sharp little bark. ]

Hah! At least this time you can admit you want to drag them down with you.

[ Let them go out there, let them drown. Why would Vanitas care about any of that? There's a little ache in his chest, but he doesn't know that it isn't his own. Guilt can feel so much like bitterness that it doesn't even occur to him to try and separate them. He's carried so much of it around for all of his existence that it's the closest to a friend he could ever have. ]

[He can't even deny that it's true, because however ugly it is to look at, there's something honest underneath. Sora does want to be with his friends. He does want to see them and for all three of them to be able to go back home- to grow up together and tell stories and lay around under the same big trees, look up at the same stars. But like every time before, his friends had been in two different places; first Riku out there in the dark, and then Kairi in places unknown.

They haven't put words to it- but he knows that he's the reason Riku's here. That he's the reason Kairi's here too, because he'd gotten involved in this fight and asked them to stand with him. Because he'd pushed too far knowing the cost. Knowing that he would be followed. Things will never be the way they were before and in the process-

Did he make a mistake, listening to his heart?
What other choice was there?

Vanitas laughs, a sharp, incisive sound- and Sora feels the syllables rattling around in his ribcage the way that water ripples after a stone hits the surface. It stretches out, pushing further and further until Sora can feel it in his throat too. A fist around his windpipe. His eyes burn and his fingers curl into his palm, biting red crescents into the skin there- and Sora doesn't know what happens next. Not in order. Because by the time he catches up with his body he's standing again, both feet sinking into the sand as he pushes- one hand at each of Vanitas's shoulders. It isn't enough to throw him, it isn't a punch. It's an attempt to stretch distance out between them.] Stop it Vanitas!

[It doesn't even sound like a demand- at least not any of the ones he's made before. It's no line drawn in the sand, the place between action and consequence.

Sora's lantern remains in the sand at his back and his hands return to his sides, two small fists. His teeth click, heart hammering against his ribcage.] Why do you always have to say the meanest thing?!

[Because he can't help it. Because that's all he knows how to do.]

What is there left to prove?!

[ It happens so fast, and it's nothing like any other clash he's ever been part of, because nobody draws a weapon. Sora turns on him, explosive and fast, puts both hands on his shoulders and knocks Vanitas off balance enough that he has to unfold his arms and stagger to keep his feet underneath him.

Between them, it's like a string has been plucked, a single note that's louder than the rush of the surf coming up the sand and taking more of the shore away with it. Vanitas can feel it like a physical thing, like an elastic pulled taut between their bodies, vibrating with potential. It feels like it should be a fight. It feels like Vanitas should be able to push just a little bit more, and Sora would draw his Keyblade and they would fill the whole beach with the clatter of metal on metal.

It's the way things should be: Light and Darkness at odds, Sora the sun and Vanitas his long shadow trying to swallow him up.

But he's right— there's nothing left to fight over. There's nothing left to prove. This world wasn't theirs, the x-Blade has been forged, Sora is dead, and if what he says is true— so is Master Xehanort. All that Vanitas had been striving for in life is long gone. There is no Ventus in this place, and there isn't really any Light— just this long, spread out Darkness, and a potential eternity of despair. In a lot of ways, this is exactly what Xehanort had wanted all along. This pain and darkness is what Vanitas was made of, so really: Vanitas should be happy.

When he bares his teeth, there's nothing joyful in his expression. ]

What's wrong, Sora? Can't handle hearing the truth? He told you a hundred times that you'd be giving up more than you knew.

[ Vanitas can't stop it, he can't help himself; he isn't even aware enough to want to. Salvation is beyond him, now, so what else is there but to pour all that negative emotion out and let it multiple forever? ]

Did you expect something more than this?

[ He gestures violently behind his twin, at the driftwood, where the axe stands stuck in it's grain, like it's some kind of representation of all that's left of everything they fought for. ]

[Sora doesn't believe that there's only one way that a person is. How could he, when he's seen such tremendous change not just in friends, but in the people he once called enemies? The world is so much bigger than he ever could have imagined and with that vastness there's a kind of nuance too. He stands by what he said that day, still catching his breath and watching his double flake away into tiny black wisps. Sora doesn't accept that this is all there is, and it's written all over his face.

Did you expect something more than this? He accuses.
And Sora's heels dig into the sand, squared up for a fight that never really crests. A thunderstorm that looms without materializing. Maybe he's right, maybe Vanitas was made this way. But he doesn't have to stay like that. It's not just Riku and Kairi and Axel, Donald and Goofy- but even people like Ansem and Xemnas, even Maleficent- they're making different choices all the time. They decide who they are. If even Xehanort could do it, then yes. He really does expect more than this.

Vanitas goes for the jugular, the metaphorical gap in his armor and even that isn't a surprise. He bares all his teeth and it doesn't look like a smile. It looks like he's in pain.]

No one wants to be alone.

[It can't be undone. Vanitas leveled him with uncanny accuracy, spooling loose thoughts that he's been to afraid to share with even his closest friends, with the sense of responsibility he can't stop carrying around. But the guilt and shame, the bone deep ache comes from this. From the truth he can't outrun, that he can't disguise. Maybe it's a terrible thing to want if it means encouraging the people he loves to follow him here, to give up on the beautiful unknown about the rest of their lives. But it's also inevitable. And universal.

Sora's shoulders fall out of their rigid line and his chin lifts. There's something defiant in it, though whether it's Vanitas it's turned towards, or the weight inside his own chest it's impossible to know.]

Not even you.

[ Maybe he should have expected this in some form or another. For all the ways Vanitas tries to get under his guard, to find the soft parts in Sora's heart and push the blade in deep— it isn't a one way street. He feels these boys in a way nobody else can. He'd said it himself: you define me. Vanitas couldn't exist as a shadow without Ventus and Sora to shine the light, and maybe in some way that means all the darkness in the both of them funnels down to collect in the basin of his darkness.

No one wants to be alone. Vanitas visibly flinches, like he's been slapped. It's a quick, aborted movement, like all his muscles jerk in tandem. His mouth pulls into a wider grimace. Sora is right, after all; hadn't that been all Vanitas was striving for? To get the rest of his heart, to soften the incessant loneliness and suffering?

But he's dead, now, and even though he's been in this place before— it's never been with the reality that he's meant to go on existing without his other half. Without a direction, or a purpose. Without the promise of the x-Blade on his horizon. Not even you. Vanitas takes a step backward, and then another. To his left, a Dark Corridor pools up out of the black, telegraphing his intention. ]

Better get back to building your boat, brother.

The darkness is waiting.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

INTRO LOG: JULY

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject