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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[ Nate remembers a similar sensation, dense air whipping around them on that little chain of islands, crackling with electricity and the smell of the palms opening up to accept the coming rain. It smacked the surface of the ocean in sheets, rushing to meet them over a landscape of unobstructed saltwater that roiled into twenty-foot swells, threatened to dash them against the jagged rocks surrounding Libertalia. Between the mines that Shoreline was dropping and the gunfire, the screaming wind, being marooned was almost a relief.

He can't really consider it that, now.

A small smile tugs at the corners of his mouth, because hurry up and wait is apt. It always applied more to the mercenaries he would work around than himself, but then, Nate can't stand sitting still for any longer than he absolutely has to. The residual levity is fleeting when Gene poses a question he isn't expecting, though. ]

Um.

[ It's a filler word, a placeholder while he tries to think of a way to phrase this. Any fear he experienced under the tutelage of the nuns in the Saint Francis Boys Home was instilled by them, and them alone. God never entered into it, and as far as Nate could tell, He didn't care. ]

I don't know, actually. Sometimes I think I am, but not for the reasons you'd expect? [ He hesitates for a moment, and then adds: ] I grew up in a Catholic orphanage, so it's not like I was lacking in an education on it, it's just...complicated.

( there's a little shiver of expression to his brow, some species of sympathy before it's smoothed out to nothin'. it does encourage him to tap a cigarette outta a little carton, though, which he rattles afterwards and, satisfied it's empty he crumples it up an' tucks it back into his bag. the cigarette's already half-smoked. he's rationin'. but he lights this one anyway, off the port of his little railway lantern. )

Reckon it would be in that case. They say fellas either find God or lose 'im in foxholes, so... I know what that's like, it bein' a complicated matter.

( but an orphanage. what child wouldn't question god, given whatever circumstance had gone an' put him there? he bets complicated ain't the half of it. he takes a drag off his cigarette, though he's mindful of where he blows the smoke so nate don't get a face of it. he's silent a spell, then, soft, )

I'm sorry to hear about your folks.

[ For a long moment Nate watches Gene fiddle around for a cigarette, suddenly, violently reminded of his brother. Sam's long fingers deftly tapping another cancer stick from the packaging, slipping it into his mouth as he lit the thing with a fluidity that might be an art form were it not for the risk to his lungs. The older Drake had been smoking since he could pilfer the damn things from Sister Catherine and ultimately, Nate is fairly certain that's what got him booted from the orphanage. ]

Nah.

[ Nate lifts and lowers his shoulders in a small shrug, a practiced nonchalance to the gesture. Stands to reason that Gene would understand the reasoning, being so close to men put under the strictest and most anxiety-inducing of circumstances. Of course he'd know doubt as intimately as the back of his own hand. ]

My mom was great, but she died when I was really young. Dad dumped me and my brother off with the nuns 'cause he didn't want us, so...any pity on his behalf is pity wasted.

[ His mouth quirks in a small, crooked smile. ]

We memorized the catechism, buffed up our Latin, but it never really...gave me anything, you know? Though I guess what people get out of religion is what they put into it, and I was an angry kid.

( he flicks ash off the end of the cigarette, holds it out to nate in case he's jonsin' some. folk don't seem to smoke as much in the future, but it's polite at least to offer. )

Not everybody's drawn to faith. Just as many folk lose themselves in it as find themselves.

( he likes it. that feelin' of bein' connected to somethin' greater than himself. that things can an' will work out okay one day at the end of all things. but he's seen folks let it get to be the whole of their identity, too, an' that doesn't seem much healthier to him than unquestionin' atheism, pure an' simple. )

I was just... you know. This place, I guess you could call it purgatory if you squinted.

[ Nate lifts a hand in silent refusal, but with an appreciation for the gesture. He's never taken to smoking and probably never well, but enough of his associates have indulged in that provincial vice that he knows better than to judge, even if he lightly ribs them for flirting with lung cancer. ]

"If you squinted?"

[ He teases, eyes crinkling up at the edges. ]

I don't think you have to squint hard to see it as purgatory. That was my first thought when we showed up here.

Well, I ain't ever seen no scripture where purgatory was a place of eternal darkness shepherded by a fella who looked like a crow an' a lady in a lighthouse, neither.

( he says it with a bit of a laugh. hard to wrap his mind around sometimes, really. an' he's here, livin' it. to varying degrees of living. )

I guess I'm just. ( 'lost'. he doesn't say it, ain't no need to put that on someone else. ) — was expectin' somethin' a little different.

[ Nate almost wishes scripture would apply. It would make things a Hell of a lot easier on both of them, all of them, to have some sort of basis for comparison. Any similarity was better than none at all, and they're already physically in the dark - it sucks something awful to be there mentally, as well.

Gene's tone - the hesitation - feels familiar in a way Nate recognizes, a distance to the sentiment, a disappointment. Having admitted to growing up Catholic he can identify the uncomfortable revelation of having certain assumptions disproved, a theology rent to pieces. ]

Not what you thought it would be?

[ He casts a glance over Gene's lantern, the light that cascades over the pages of his sketchbook. When he lifts his chin again Nate attempts eye contact, trying to press more than one meaning into his words when he's never been a man of nuance. ]

You're not alone.

( not a man of the least amount of nuance, no. but it's appreciated, an' gene's crooked little smile speaks to the soul of it. )

I know. Ain't never been so, truth be told. But that don't mean it ain't nice to hear.

( he leans into nate briefly, bumps their shoulders together in that companionable way that was sometimes the only manner'a comfort you got in foxholes. )

You neither, huh?

[ Nate wonders what he means by that, but being as distractable as he is, does not press. ]

Honestly? [ He blows a raspberry, and bumps shoulders right back. ] I never really thought about what might come after. Guess that makes me short-sighted.

Or more focused on the now. More folks could stand to be like you in that regard.

( he thinks it's an admirable thing. a man what preoccupies himself with the what-ifs of some nebulous future ain't one he wants beside him in a foxhole, that's for sure. hopin' you've got a place after you die an' obsessin' over it are two different things. )

You an artist back home? Didn't mean to pry, but seems to me like you've got real talent.

I guess.

[ There isn't much conviction in him about it, and the shuttered smile Nate flashes disappears just as quickly as it comes. There was a time when he felt he had something to show for his efforts, not that he ever wanted a legacy, but being focused on the now so often ran him straight into the ground.

No use crying over spilled milk. Gene's follow-up question catches his interest either which way. ]

No, I just. I like to- I've been doing it since I was a kid. [ Lifting his pencil, he passes the book to Gene. ] Used to carry a sketchbook with me on jobs all the time.

( he takes it with a sort of reverence — it ain't just the fact that it's a product of love and labor that makes him treat it so. art is a window to the soul more tellin' than any lantern. he traces the lines of the picture with the pads of his fingers, mindful not to smudge it. he recognizes beacon, but the other?

funny, how he don't doubt for a minute that it's a real place. the art just evokes that sense, there's no fantasy to it. it looks as if it feels solid an' real an' that you could set foot on a city street an' see the crumbling mortar, sunlight spillin' through clotted vines, the cloying scent of greenery an' the weight of ages past.

ghosts would walk these streets.

soft, )

Where is this?

[ Gene is respectful with it - perhaps more so than it deserves, given the kind of crap his belongings see when he's on a job - and it's almost sweet to see him admire the pages, giving them a great deal more attention than Nate thinks is warranted. He knows he's a decent artist, he's been drawing since he can remember, but under scrutiny it still feels...intimate, somehow? Vulnerable.

Nate's gaze tracks over the sketch of a crumbling building in Libertalia, swallowed by plants and full of the relics its residents left behind. He leans over and turns the page for Gene, to a set of drawings done around Beacon, and flashes him an apologetic smile. ]

I'll tell you sometime.

( it ain't a boundary overstepped, but a line drawn. gene can respect that, an' doesn't make a fuss. he examines this new page too, just as intent, an' then he tips the book closed an' hands it back with a smile. )

Well, I'll hold you to that, Nate. In the meantime, I'll leave you to your business.

( he's the one who encroached on his time anyhow, though he doesn't think nate's fussed about it. gene tips his head respectfully, an' whenever nate's said his partin' peace he's off to carry on his way. )

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INTRO LOG: JULY

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