logsinthenight | 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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Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

It's a good place.

⟪ In some manner, she has kept out of his path so far – the prayers needed to be sung, though, in the morning and in the evening, or... well, the vague guesses she makes as to when those are, and the cathedral is best for it, by the candles, where her voice can carry through the pews and fill the room, first in Valyrian, then in the Common Tongue, and finally in Asshai'i.

But they can't pretend to not see each other for all that long, can they? At least, she can't, she is too curious by nature, and her options too limited to find out any other way. ⟫

I figured it the fire sought it out ⟪ an approximate nod towards the candles ⟫ it would be safe to stay in. Less crowded than the tavern.

⟪ The ruby at her throat seems to pulse in time with a heartbeat, slow and steady, though it's glow does not spread. ⟫

[ Speak for yourself, Melisandre. Rafe is more than capable of functionally pretending something or someone doesn't exist for years. His curiosity is saved for better things. Big scores.

The stone, for instance. Hard not to catch it, one of the few other points of light in here, altar notwithstanding. Decent sized stone if an unusual cut, a setting he doesn't recognize. He's probably going to have to get used to that until he gets a better frame of reference on... Well. Everything. ]

Yeah, I wouldn't start banking on "safe" anywhere in this town.

[ Least of which is the trap door only a few dozen feet from where they now stand. But Rafe doesn't want to talk more about the potential lead, or the church. Both feel too close to giving something away about himself in the telling, something almost personal and so— Subject change. ]

You the choir I've been hearing around here?

⟪ Melisandre can live life comfortably ignoring people – it's the Asshai'i way – but not here. Just earlier that day, she has seen a fool climb the bell tower. One can't rely on people having any sense in her world, but the population of this city appears to be purposefully attempting to lower the scores. ⟫

You live in a temple and yet you are confounded by prayer?

⟪ It isn't just prayer, no, but she has been taught God appreciates beautiful offerings, burned or not, and song has ever counted among those things. ⟫

Prayer? No.

[ There had been some church-going when he was younger. The bare-bones obligatory Presbyterian WASP necessities. But his parents had never cared enough past appearances and Rafe had seen through the pageantry earlier. Preferred things he could tangibly measure and quantify and see for himself.

Faith never got anyone anything but an empty promise. ]

Languages I don't recognize? Yes.

[ Rafe moves on to a column, fingers dragging light against the stone. He squints in the dark as if that'll help him ascertain the kind of stone, a stylistic tell, anything to help determine a source but no go. Not with just his lantern and the candles. ]

⟪ He looks at the column as she had once upon the stones of Asshai, trying to make sense of them and finding nothing at all that relates to any other place – though he is older than she was, then, and more like than not a little more versed in the world. ⟫

Asshai'i. It is uncommon even in my own world. ⟪ She steps closer, bringing with her the scent of ash and smoke and fire that clings to her, ever her own – once she stops next to him, he'll feel the heat radiating from her. ⟫ Valyrian is frequently used, but I suppose I tend towards the bastard variety when I do not lead anyone else in prayer.

⟪ No, the column remains a column, even as she tries to see what he's trying. ⟫ What do you hope to find?

[ Her smoke is almost indistinguishable from his own, sharper with the notes of saltpeter and gunpowder, but he certainly feels the temperature ratchet up a degree or two the closer she comes. The strange words roll off her tongue, lingering on the r's especially, and Rafe can't help but arch an eyebrow. He's still curious, all dead cat proverbs aside, and mentally files the information away. ]

Either of those your own or are you just that much of a polygot?

[ He stays in step beside her as he strolls through the interplay of shadow and candlelight. ]

I'm looking for something that makes sense in here, [ he answers, half distracted. ] This isn't any kind of stone, it's a mix. A concrete, but that doesn't fit with any of the half dozen styles I'm seeing in here. No mason's mark on any of the stone, no signature on any of the pews, nothing to say anything about who built this. It's... [ Rafe shakes his head. ] Piecemeal.

I lived most my life in Asshai.

⟪ It's not quite the answer he was looking for, but then, at least he got an answer of a sort, and that is more than some would get.

Besides, that is not half as important as what he has to say of the building. It hadn't occurred to her to even look for these things, and she won't claim to have any knowledge. Perhaps she can, with vague confidence, place buildings around Essos, but that had quickly enough left her in Westeros. ⟫

This seems a lot of effort to go through for a building this size. ⟪ Piecing it together like that, she means. ⟫ Even if it was pieced together, some of these would have markings, no? At least scratched off? Does this mean it was all... made here?

Making you uncommon as well, huh.

[ He takes the answer as it comes, flashing an inquiring eyebrow her way in between the arching columns around them, the encroaching dark beyond the candles offering their own light in the distance. ]

Yeah, exactly. A mason carving in a notch to show that a block is ready for moving, or just as a... You know. Kilroy was here. Some initials scratched in under the pews where nobody would see but other carpenters. [ It's a mystery and one that grates but...grating is good. It's familiar and better to focus on than anything else right here. ] I don't know about it being made here, I'd have to get a look at what kind of stone is local to the area. Even if it's concrete, it'd be an answer one way or another.

⟪ Fascinating, he knows his way around these things as well as any builder she has encountered, and in a way, she is grateful to speak of a mystery greater than the beating of a heart beneath her bloodied dress. ⟫

Wait.

⟪ She rests a hand against another column, not wishing to to intrude on his space with her powers, and her eyes flash redder, as does the ruby –– not that either can cast shine in this darkness. Shadows crawl from her palm, onward and upward, until they vanish up into the pitch black of the ceiling. ⟫

Nothing. Not even damage. Not even spiders. No carving, nooks, anything. ⟪ She frowns. ⟫ I mean, there are mountains, it was mentioned by the harbour, but even so... Who goes through all this trouble, even through the making of stained glass, and does not leave a hint of himself?

INTRO LOG: JULY

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