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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⟪ Melisandre finds herself circling – not physically, spiritually – between being called to action, to make preparations, and... and doing nothing, staring into the fire, not even trying to see. Shock, she supposes, this could be it. It can be seen in soldiers, and though she has never been one of them, she has just lost a battle.

Yes, shock it must be. It's the way Stannis had looked, when she had tried to peel him out of his armour, the one he had still worn upon his return to Dragonstone, after Blackwater. What had she told him? Lost battles are not a lost war.

The woman next to her is speaking – of dying again, of the speeches they had heard upon leaving the boat, and at least she sounds clever in her words, quick on her feet. It's something to latch onto ––

So Melisandre offers her hand willingly, and if Rosalind should touch it, she'll find her warm, burning up, as if she is suffering a grave fever. ⟫

What is it you need?

[She's very hot. It means Rosalind pauses for just a moment, frowning faintly, before carrying on with her task. With her left hand she steadies Melisandre's wrist; with her right she takes a needle and pricks her finger, deep and swift, just like that, sorry bruh--

She pulls back. There's a deep red droplet on the tip of her finger, and Rosalind hums softly in interest as she releases her.]

That.

[She sets the needle down carefully.]

We still bleed. Our hearts truly are still beating, it isn't simply an illusion. [She can feel a pulse, of course, but she wanted confirmation it wasn't just her mind projecting.] Rather odd behavior for a dead person, don't you think?

⟪ Melisandre predates the scientific by a good few centuries, but that doesn't mean she can't appreciate it when she is so resolutely faced with it. And she is being a formidable patient – she holds her hand still, doesn't flinch, does not make a sound, does not draw back. Mind, she is surprised, of course, but she has had too many years of pretending to feel no pain at all in the face of magic that it's simply the most natural reaction for her to... not react at all. ⟫

Quite. ⟪ By herself, she is satisfied with Rosalind's findings for a wholly different reason: blood means blood magic is not lost to her. ⟫

We are not Others, either. ⟪ There is an accent when she speaks, the rolling and lilting of the Jade Sea. ⟫ Wights, Walkers, whatever you call the undead in your lands. A needle would not have pierced me then.

⟪ Bit of relief at that, eh, Melisandre? She considers the droplet of blood on the tip of her finger. ⟫

Counterpoint: I did receive several grave stabbing wounds, the likes of which I could not have survived. Brought back, perhaps?

Or a mixture of the two. Not quite dead and not quite alive . . . but a third state of being.

[Is such a thing possible? Assume that it is. Assume that it was difficult to achieve, but possible. What would trigger it? She stares at the fire for a long few seconds, frowning, before turning to Melisandre.]

How did you die?

An in-between. Purgatorical? ⟪ Honestly, Melisandre is taking quite a shine to this one. She has her wits about her, and she is not one to hide from the truth – a pleasant combination, in her eyes. ⟫

Daggers at dawn.

⟪ She turns, combing her long, red hair forward so Rosalind can get a look at the cuts and tears in the back of her red dress, the stains that can be nothing but blood. The skin beneath is pale and smooth, but still, it's obvious someone has been rather brutally murdered.

Shifting back into her previous position, she finally licks the drop of blood from her finger and then tilts her head at Rosalind. ⟫

And you?

An assassination.

[A suspected one, anyway, but she knows she isn't stupid enough to have made a mistake with her machine. It was tampered with, and she has a fairly decent guess as to who did it. A beat, and she gestures behind her. There's a neat pile of some very burnt clothes behind her.]

Why were you stabbed?

An assassination.

⟪ It's not playing echo, she is answering the question and it simply turns out to be the same one for both of them. It's not enough of a 'why' to please her, she supposes, but she can only guess, and that is evident as she continues. ⟫

The previous two attempts had to do with my closeness to the king.

⟪ More like her 'eerie' hold on him, though she finds little eerie about it herself. ⟫

Your turn. Did you steal the wrong person's blood?

[She scoffs softly, a laugh that isn't one.]

I made a deal with a powerful man. When I reneged on it, he found out despite my best efforts and decided to remove me in the most efficient way possible.

[Casually said, but there's an undercurrent of anger in her voice that suggests she isn't nearly as over it as she wants others to believe.]

⟪ Fire she senses like nothing else, and there is fire beneath the placidity of the answer. Fair enough. ⟫

Powerful men rarely relish in contrary thought.

⟪ A pause. ⟫

Or thought at all, safe for their own meagre offerings in the area.

⟪ Someone has listened in on a lot of lordly meetings. A nod towards the neatly folded clothing. ⟫

You intend to salvage these?

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. ⟫

bonfire!

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