INTRO LOG: NOVEMBER

[inthenightmods]

INTRO LOG: NOVEMBER
OLD FAT BOAT

characters: everyone.
location: the harbor, and around town.
date/time: november 1-3.
content: the ferry's back! yay! and it's piled high with goodies! yay!
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.

•••

To everyone's surprise, the ferry does indeed arrive on schedule. Right on time, it comes chugging along toward the beach, though its usually noisy engines are silent. And it seems to be sitting quite low in the water... Hmm.

Unfortunately for those unlucky enough to find themselves onboard, there isn't yet a replacement dock for the one that was destroyed last month. The ferry stops right where it would normally anchor, but then... that's it.

Logistically, there's good news and bad news: The good news is that the ferry is only about 25-30 feet from shore, which is well within the safety of the harbor and is a manageable distance for swimming with an open flame. The bad news? It's... 25-30 feet from shore, which is going to make unloading supplies, er, tricky.

The usual monthly stock has also come in, but, oh, what's this? There's an awful lot in the cargo hold. An awful, awful lot. As a matter of fact, the boat is absolutely filled with food and goods. The storage areas are packed tight, but the bounty spills out onto the decks, and even into the cabins. It's entirely possible that some of the newbies woke up surrounded by potatoes, or with a carton of eggs balanced on them. Maybe even in a pile of Beacon's signature standard clothing. In short, the ferry has become a proverbial horn of plenty.

Where all this stuff came from is one mystery, but another is how to get it all to shore. Better unload it before the weight sinks the ferry again! Just kidding. (Or are we?)

At a glance, the only thing out of place on the ferry is that the door to the bridge is welded shut. Seems a small price to pay for this resurrection though, doesn't it? Besides that one door and all these goodies piled high on the ship, it's almost as if the ferry crash never even happened. Maybe things will be okay after all?

Or maybe the new arrivals will have something to say about that. 🤔

And speaking of newcomers, the tablet and the town have some resources available for getting acquainted with their new situation! In fact, as soon as they're prompted to enter a network username, an app containing all sorts of useful welcome information will launch. Newcomers can always check out the weekly bulletins and the records in town hall as well, and everyone's welcome to get in touch with the NPCs through their inboxes.

ooc.

Hey there, wonderful players, and welcome to In the Night! For this intro log, you are officially without a chaperone. Rastus is back at the bonfire, Will is characteristically elusive, and Robin is, well, you know where she's at. It's up to the veteran residents to fill in the new folks.

As hinted above, it's also up to veteran residents (and newbies alike) to figure out the missing dock situation. Some efforts have already been started to rebuild the structure, but until that's done, the logistics are in your hands! Swim for it, fly for it, teleport to the beach, or maybe use one of the rafts or boats built earlier to shuttle people to and fro. Whatever you do, just make sure you get all the cargo (and people!) off the ferry before it departs.

As an additional note: We will NOT be tracking how you do all of that! There's no need to report salvage efforts to us, as by now, we trust y'all players to make things happen. So long as we see these challenges getting addressed ICly, we'll assume the town came together and figured it out somehow. Nice work, everyone!

DELIVERIES

The following packages can be found in the cargo hold:

• The monthly store restock
  
• A smorgasbord of other items; though limited in scope to the items typically found in the restock/stores, there's an abundance of everything.
  
• And that's it. With the fate of the ferry uncertain, Rastus was unable to order deliveries last month. :(
  
• ...Except for a single box of blueberry Poptarts for Peter Parker.

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

Comments

[sauntered_downward]

This guy is blowing off steam. Crowley can see it. He has nobody to be mad at, so he's mad at Crowley. Crowley's faced down far worse and has done far stupider in his time than sinking a stupid ferry.

And the worst part of it? He does care. He cares because he hurt people. He hurt people he cares about. He made the human soldier person starve himself because they ran out of supplies. That matters and it's Crowley's fault. But none of it---none of it is as important as escaping.

He lowers his voice and turns to face the man fully.

"Touch me one more time," he says, and there's no small threat to his voice.

[moderatelymaladjusted]

"Yeah? Then what, asshole? You're going to sink the ferry again?"

And Quentin very slowly and very deliberately, pokes Crowley in the shoulder again.

It's not that Quentin has a death wish, per say, even if there are people who would argue that point vehemently. But he does get caught up in his emotions too much, he cares. About the stupidest things, and in all the wrong moments. His mother used to call him, the one who breaks things. That there had never been a moment, where Quentin didn't stroll in, five years old and curious, and things just broke around him.

He's older now, wiser in some ways, but he's always going to be that kid, watching his mom's outraged face as something just breaks because he was in the room. He's always going to feel like that kid, wrong-footed and awkward, unsure and helpless. Like he doesn't like himself very much.

What he does like? Is Eliot. And while Quentin never fights for himself, he has always been willing to set the world on fire and kill Gods for his friends.

So, he pokes Crowley, and juts his chin out with a sneer.

"Fuck. You."

[sauntered_downward]

"No," Crowley says, very deliberately. "Fuck you."

Crowley reaches out a hand and presses his finger to the man's forehead.

He has no desire to actually hurt him, of course. No punches or hits because that's--well, that's messy, isn't it? It's very human. Crowley is, above all things, not a fighter. He's not going to injure or maim someone because it's cruel and he's not cruel. He's not about to throw a bolt of Hellfire at some poor human's face because he's a sack of shit, is he?

No, Crowley uses his imagination.

He imagines a line of fear going straight from his demonic core into the man's head. Something deep, something immensely frightening and personal. The man can pick the form himself, he can pick what he sees and how he feels it, but Crowley will become it, he'll stand there over the man, hovering at him.

[moderatelymaladjusted]

Instead of flinching, Quentin juts his chin out even more, steeling himself for the blow he's so dead certain is coming his way, when all Crowley does, is boop him gently on the forehead.

What?
The?
Hell?

It's not the weirdest fight he been in, but it's up there and Quentin has time to think only that, before his whole body seems to get plunged in to a bucket full of fear. Like going through the ice that you thought would carry you, ice cold and deadly, and his heart flips in his chest. Skipping beats like he doesn't need it not to, as the fight-flight-freeze reaction rushes over him and Quentin freezes.

Like a deer caught in a pair of very dangerous headlights.

Because between one blink and the next, it's not Crowley - with his stupid face and his stupid glasses - it's not-Eliot, eyes flashing and lips curled up in a parody of a smile.

Swallowing hard, hands shaking as he brings them together, fingers working slowly-
"Peaches."

[sauntered_downward]

Crowley has a lot of abilities. Part and partial to being a demon, of course. He can do a lot of things, make a lot of things happen. Tin of sardines? It's yours. Brand new fireplace in your flat? Instant. Opening at the Ritz on a Friday night? Done. He can do everything short of bring someone back from the dead back on Earth. Here? He's much more limited. He creates the illusion of whatever the man fears, lets it soak into him with fear hormones rushing through his body, and lets him experience it.

If this were Earth, he could make this last as long as he wanted. Hours, days, whatever. Here, he knows he doesn't have long. But long enough to make a point. That point needs to be Don't fuck with me.

He stands there, letting the man's fear play out for him, focusing his energy.

[moderatelymaladjusted]

The monster doesn't say anything to that, and Quentin swallows hard against his suddenly dry throat. His hands are sweaty, sticking together as he moves through the tuts, the ones they all practiced until the tuts became second nature. In another world and in a different time. When all of them had thought that the Beast was as bad as it was going to get.

But Quentin's hands blur through the motions, even when he feels so scared he's about to throw up. Because the monster came and it found him again, like it's always going to find him. Even here.

With one last twist of his fingers, Quentin cups one hand around the other and pushes, magic flowing out from his hands in a sudden burst of battle magic and the energy wave heads straight for Crowley with the force of desperation and naked fear.

[sauntered_downward]

Crowley, as it is, has absolutely no idea what the Heaven this man is doing. He's reacting how Crowley wants, at first, all fear and humbleness, and then suddenly he's moving his hands and twisting his fingers at him, like he's playing a complicated schoolyard game. Then he throws something at Crowley, and because he's focused on the fear he's pushing at him, he has no way to stop him.

The push hits Crowley square in the chest, and the demon flies backwards instantly, landing hard on his back. The spell is broken immediately as he gasps for air. Magic, the man had said. He said he had magic, and Crowley thought he was full of shit. He reaches down to check on his leg, which has miraculously not been further injured in the fall.

[moderatelymaladjusted]

The magic flows and it's sluggish, harder to move than he wants it to be. Hard than it used to be, but this place is fucking it all up and Quentin squares his shoulders for another push just as the monster flies backwards, landing hard on its borrowed ass and then it's not the monster anymore.

"What the hell?"

Because there's still terror sloshing through his veins, and his heart is still pounding like a jackhammer in his chest. "What?"

[sauntered_downward]

Crowley scrambles to his feet. Is this a proper fight? He's managed to avoid all fights in this stupid town because nobody's wanted to actually hit him or throw any sort of magic at him despite how angry they've been, but this man appears ready to defend himself against fear or anything Crowley has to offer.

His chest hurts---actually, properly hurts!----as he gasps for air when he stands up, and his sunglasses are slightly askew.

"So you do have magic, then," he says, trying to sound very casual about the whole thing and actually sounding more surprised than anything else.

[moderatelymaladjusted]

"Yeah, asshole. I've got magic," and Quentin doesn't let his hands down, just keeps them close together before he shakes them out fast and hard, pulling his fingers together in a tight knot.

"And you--what the hell did you do? You were-- you weren't you!" Like an accusation, and Quentin shakes his head as if to clear it, still angry and pissed off and scared half out of his mind.

[sauntered_downward]

"You're not the only one with abilities," Crowley says, and he holds out a hand, filling it full of Hellfire. The fire doesn't create any light, but it makes his hand hot as Hell---literally. He, of course, has no intention of actually throwing any Hellfire at some human, even if the human did knock him on his ass. He's just putting it out there for show. Something to hopefully make him back away, think twice before trying something else.

Of course, it might instigate him further. Crowley's never been very good at reading people like that.

"I could do it again, if you'd like?" he adds, casually. "If we're going to do this to each other."

[moderatelymaladjusted]

"You're the one who started it!" like they're five years old and someone just threw the first fist-full of sand, and he moves through the Sumerian Shield Charm almost on instinct and there's a quick dull flash as a net shimmers in to existence right in from of him.

"Now what? You're going to set me on fire? Good luck with that! So you know magic, big deal. This is still all on you! You sank the ferry! You put lives in danger, all because you didn't want to share with the class!"