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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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.

[There's a special, awful little shiver that goes through her as Melisandre mentions shaming and rapes. She has not, thank god, ever gone through such a thing, but it was a reality that was just not talked about.

But that didn't mean she didn't think about it. How could she not?

She sits, her hands on her thighs, her blue eyes so intent as she absorbs that. Even that freedom, coming with clauses and limitations though it is, seems unimaginable.]

And you've-- that is to say, you've--

[Good god, she sounds like a simpleton. Rosalind takes her tea, her lips pursed slightly in irritation with herself.]

When did you realize?

⟪ Melisandre lets her take her time with the question, there is no use in rushing such conversations. What would it have been like for her, growing up, growing into herself, with yet another restriction? If not even the comfort of touch could be given only at such high a risk, so steep a cost?

The thought is enough to feel as though she would have choked on it. ⟫

I must have been... four-and-ten, maybe five-and-ten. It is not easy to tell, I do not know mine own nameday, let alone the year I was born in. I was working in the kitchens, and my closest friend was among those tending to the fires, and there was no girl more beautiful. It took me a while to sort my thoughts –– ⟪ she sips her tea, smile still soft on her lips. ⟫ but dreams can be conclusive. I think six-and-ten I was, a woman grown in my world, when I mustered the courage to kiss her.

⟪ It is not her usual way, to speak of such private matters, of a time before she was a priestess and living her days in Asshai. But she has found these things can soothe. ⟫ It is not uncommon to think about, mind. It is... cruel to think that the very consideration, so gentle a thing could have filled you with fear.

[She hears the unspoken question, obvious enough to attract attention but subtle enough she could avoid it, if she wished. It's so unlike how she herself asks things, pointed and sharp, that the difference startles her. It's pleasing, though. Having that option, even if it isn't a secret much longer.]

Fourteen, we call that. Four-and-ten. I attended university, and the woman I shared a room with was . . .

[Victoria, with her red lipstick and bright eyes, always pushing the envelope, staying out too late with boys, seeing her roommate as nothing more than a child, one who was still growing into her body. She'd attended university so young, and she'd thought maybe when she'd grown a bit, maybe when the curve of her chest swelled and her hips widened, she'd--

Well. She had gotten attention. Just not the kind she wanted.]

--vivacious. But the risks were too great. I had a plan for my life, and it did not involve scandal.

[. . .]

Did she return your affections?

Edited 2019-07-24 22:19 (UTC)

⟪ Among the first things Melisandre had thought of this woman was to appreciate her directness. Ambiguity was as part of her nature as flame itself was, but even with the king, she'd always found it a good combination of traits, one vague, one to the point.

She listens quietly – scandal she can understand, scandal is something she has learned among the nobles of Westeros. How quickly it can make or break, if not a man, then certainly a woman. ⟫

She did, I was very lucky. I became an acolyte, and as I learned my letters, I began to teach them to her, so even though we often only saw each other for a few precious hours, we could leave one another words written.

⟪ Nothing so good could last, of course. ⟫ I was sent to another Temple, three months worth of travelling away to study more of my craft. We said we would see each other again, but after I'd completed my training, I was sent to Asshai –– where I learned shadowbinding. ⟪ and became less mortal ⟫

I must ask, if only because there is so much darkness in this –– affection did find you in life, yes? ⟪ Man or woman, there's no difference in her question. It'll make it easier to speak of the cold the woman must have gone through as a girl, if there's some shape of warmth to come. ⟫

No.

[It's a quick answer, unthinking. No, of course not, it didn't, she doesn't, she can't, she wouldn't ever, not untouchable Madam Lutece--

--but it's different here, isn't it? It isn't Columbia, and Robert isn't a secret she has to protect with her life. Still: she glances once more at the door, eyes flickering over the shadow, before returning her attention to Melisandre.]

. . . yes.

[Belated, but far stronger. A few seconds pass, her eyes flickering down to stare at something unseen, before she adds:]

Robert.

His name was Robert. And I have never known a man like him, before or since.

⟪ Robert and Rosalind, she thinks, with a hint of sadness as how quickly she'd been forced to lie, how difficult it had been for her to admit to a truth so human, so natural. God above, this was with a man. Still, even after knowing that the secret she'd been given was bad enough to kill her, in her world, not even the so common bond between a man and a woman –– ⟫

I am sorry for your loss of him. And his.

⟪ It's empty, she knows, but it must be said. ⟫

In life, my most recent lover was the King, the one true king of all seven kingdoms. I am no stranger to words unsaid, but rumours work quick. All this to say, I will not share your secrets with a soul, living or dead.

[God. Melisandre doesn't even understand the weight of that secret, not yet. Perhaps she never will. Perhaps someday she will, and that second thought is more frightening than the first. Rosalind says nothing for a few seconds, sipping at her tea instead, trying to gather herself up just a little.

She's never-- she's led a solitary life for the most part, Robert aside. She's had colleagues and rivals and even a few fans, but never something like this. It's a strange feeling. Warm, but pleasantly so. It's not that she's going to spill all her secrets right now, but still.]

I appreciate it.

[She exhales slowly, a harsh breath, before glancing up at Melisandre.]

Tell me of your king. Or your girl. Or whomever else you deem important.

⟪ The strange thing is, it's much the same for Melisandre. Why form friendship, seek love, when she is a priestess, who may be allowed all the pleasures of life, but who must be equally willing to give up everything for her god. This, really, is what strikes her about their conversation: in a temple of sorts they may be, but she does not speak to Rosalind as a priestess. ⟫

The King... I first saw him in a vision, and when I met him, I thought he was more stone than man, not an ounce of faith in his heart. But he is a just man. Of course, he has some Westerosi ideas, but he would fight to his last for his kingdom, he has set up ways to ensure his daughter will take his throne should he fall, and neither I, nor the man he named his Hand – his right hand, if you so will – are highborn, and yet, he listens to us.

⟪ Her voice fades, perhaps in some sadness. By now, he would still not know she'd died, that he is waiting for magic that won't come. That he is up against the army of wights on his own, eventually. ⟫

What of Robert? What is he passionate about? And you? You said you wish for a workshop, what will you use it for?

⟪ Questions just kind of seem to burst out of her here. ⟫

[It's startling, but not displeasing. This is sort of fun, honestly, now that Rosalind is settling into it. She's never had someone like this before. Oh, Robert, of course, and he knew every thought that went through her head (and vice-versa), but never-- never a girlfriend, so to speak.

It's interesting, hearing about her King. Pointedly, the bits about his treatment of those lowborn. Rosalind is far from a champion of working class rights, but she isn't blind. Those in power rarely spare a thought for those below; it's notable this man has done it not once, but twice, in both his lover and his adviser.

It's a story that inevitably ends in tragedy, of course, just as any story of Robert will as well (and that is a reality that she has not yet accepted, not fully, and maybe she wont until she's forced to). But ah, Robert--]

Science.

[That's for the workshop question, which is far easier.]

Any kind of science I can find here. Autopsies of the spirits, perhaps, or testing the properties of this world.

[But hm, that other question.]

Robert is as passionate for science as I am. We met when we were sixteen or so, and initially bonded over quantum physics and our mutual theories. He is kinder than I am, and more prone to sentiment. Not to the point of absurdity, but he . . . hmm. He learned how to juggle just to amuse me . . . and the children we'd see at the market.

⦑ It is fascinating, trying to picture her Robert. Her opposite, in a way – seeking fun and sentiment where Rosalind, even in the short, short time they have spent together, seems to prefer facts and logic and touchable evidence. These things work well, she reckons, especially if there's shared passion.

Even if 'science', as a term, is confusing. It sounds akin to the studies performed at the Temples, or in some ways by the Maesters of the Citadel in Westeros. She wonders if, just like women of Westeros, her sex had made gaining such an education troublesome ––

Then she reflects on what she has been told so far. Yes, is the conclusion she comes to. ⦒

He sounds like a good man. He must be, if he earned your trust – and your heart.

⦑ She'd like to talk more of him, like girls perhaps would, sharing these stories over a cup of tea between smiles and laughter, but... She also knows this could pour salt into a wound, and she'd rather see her new friend smile than hurt. ⦒

Autopsy... A dissection?

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originallutece - 2019-08-02 21:58 (UTC) - Expand

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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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