EVENT LOG: GRAVES

[inthenightmods]

EVENT LOG:
GRAVES

characters: everyone.
location: Bonfire Square.
date/time: July 12-19.
content: mysterious shrines appear and bring visions of death.
warnings: likely violence and potentially gore.

time to pay your respects.

It happens when no one is looking, when most of the town is asleep and the rest are inside. A makeshift cemetery has come to Beacon, taking up residence in the middle of Bonfire Square. Each monument, shrine, and altar is dedicated to someone who now resides here, a memorial of their previous life.

Some may be drawn by curiosity, others by fear, and some may simply have to pass through this strange graveyard to get to the Bonfire itself. Whenever a person gets near, the altars beckon with a mysterious urge— an urge to approach, and an urge to leave something behind. They will feel compelled to make offerings at the various shrines, but doing so has a curious effect; it causes one to experience the death of the person whose grave they've honored.

Whether you resist the compulsion or give in willingly (or something in between), you'll also have to wrestle with the fact that a grave exists for you. Will you let your death be known, or try your best to keep it secret? Destroying it sure won't work, as it will return— with a duplicate somewhere else in town.

However you choose to deal with this, one thing is hard to ignore— this a tangible reminder of your death, and the fact that it's probably permanent.

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Rosinante Donquixote | Open prompts within

[callada]

Death

[callada]

[Video link here, skip to 14:00 or so, after the commercial break. If you want a quicker version the relevant manga pages are here, read right to left. I'd recommend you do at least one of the two so the following makes sense as it's mostly introspection rather than rehashing dialogue.]

Rosinante greets Doflamingo with retaliation, as he had wished he could have done for all three - nearly four - of the years he'd spent in his brother's shadow. Three years and some months spent in quiet obedience, meanwhile carefully, secretly noting down every overheard tidbit and copying every stolen document. So when he points his pistol at Doflamingo and speaks his true affiliation with the Marines, he does so clearly, with focus, with pride even though his ribs are broken and his lungs don't seem to be bringing in enough air. It's not a confession. It's an attack, aimed straight at his brother's heart.

(But he feels the need to apologize anyway. Not to Doflamingo but to the child behind him, hidden and silent in the treasure chest. He's a Marine. He's Law's enemy because of this. The Marines participated in genocide and he does not expect to be forgiven, even if he wasn't there in person. How foolish was he, to cling this whole time to someone bound to hate him, and justifiably so? How selfish, to lie just so he could be loved?)

All Doflamingo wants is power. He wants a right-hand man who will grant him immortality so he can conquer throne after throne. He demands answers from Rosinante - where is the fruit? If Law has it, where is Law? Where is the child who will die for him as the third Corazón? The other executives of the Donquixote Family stand passively, probably just as afraid as Rosinante once was. It's funny how in the face of death, he's the only one who will even make an attempt to put an end to the cascade of tragedies his espionage has foretold. The rest just wish to ride Doflamingo's coattails to the top of every palace.

Law isn't one of them. Law will never follow. Rosinante can't stop Doflamingo at this point any more than he could stop those razor-sharp strings from caging the entire island, but he can get Law out safely. If he only ever does one good thing with his whole life, let it be this. And so as Doflamingo carries on, accusing him of being too soft, too weak, he stands with broken, bleeding limbs, pistol ready to fire.

(Sorry, Law. Again. He'd lied to the boy too many times in one day. Told him Doflamingo wouldn't kill him for this, just so the child to sit down and stay hidden in that chest. Tried to make light of things just so Law would remember him smiling and full of love. That was not a lie; he's probably never been so sincere.)

"He is free!" he shouts, spitting in the face of everything Doflamingo wants. There will be no obedience here today and he will not face death sitting down. Nearly four years without a single spoken word to his brother ends in a declaration of Law's liberation from a future of chaos and destruction. This is his will - that Law should live to make his own choices, no matter what they end up being. At least they'll be his own, and not Doffy's.

He'd expected the first shot. The second hits as the first is registering still. It's not the first time he's been shot, not even the first time today, but as the third, fourth, and fifth punch right through, all he can hear is the ringing in his ears still. It's good he stood. There was no chance the bullets could go through the wood of the chest. Law should still be safe - poor boy. He surely feels the impact as Rosinante collapses backward onto the hard metal edge of the box and slumps back down against its side, shrouded in feathers while red decorates the snow around him. Doesn't even get to keep his uncomfortable wooden pillow, but it's not the fall back into the snow he notices so much as the sudden absence of tiny, silent fists thumping against his back through the planks.

Whatever is going on out there, he can't see it now. Can't really even hear it. He's tired, and cold, and alone. Nobody will witness his final moments, but he doesn't need that. All he can do is concentrate on staying alive for just one more breath, then another. He has to buy Law a few extra seconds to escape, for each moment he clings to life is another moment where nobody will hear the child who must be running by now. Who hopefully will get far, far away from here so he can live a life free of anyone else's demands. Maybe, with a stroke of luck, Law will even think of him again some day and remember him smiling.

[Feel free to leave offerings in reply to this post if your character comes across it while he's away and doesn't come talk to him about it in another prompt.]

Daylight vis Lornlit | Original.

[sunborne]

i;; once more, with clarity.

[ daylight's grave definitely stands out for the fact it's proportional to his size. the marble and metal firepit stand also burns with a lit fire. while it does not emit light, it sure as hell emits heat, blazing and true, when one dares to approach it.

there's a plaque on the stand, simply inscribed with the following:

Daylight vis Lornlit, the Sunsung.
Kindled of Radiance vis Noxolarium, the Sundered Star.
Kindled from Lorem Laurel.

Deserved better.

leaving an offering on daylight's marker causes the individual to fully experience daylight's death: he had taken a shot for someone else, both impulsively and instinctively stepping into the line of fire when he turns a corner, minding his own business, and sees someone he considers a friend having a gun levelled at their unsuspecting back. the fact the gun is behind held by someone he trusts, someone he cares for - that twist only adds to the numb shock and confusion that leads up to him getting blast through the chassis.

after that, as he lies on the ground, struggling to breathe, daylight registers pain. a lot of it too. it takes him a second to realise why: his chassis has been blown apart and his insides are torn to shreds, leaving him/the offerer in a riot of fear and confusion and horror. he's just realising that he's probably not going to make it and he's scared.

others on the starship now rush to his side, only adding to the pandemonium as they crowd around him. some humanoid, some decidedly not, and all shouting questions, yelling concern. he wants to speak with them, to answer them, but he's finding it difficult to concentrate on anything that isn't painfearconfusionpainhurtwhywhywhy-

the chaos, the confusion, the cold, cold stare of his shooter (his friend) gives him as she stares him down only adds to his fear and his panic, even as he begins to slip away. someone's shaking him, screaming, but he can't focus on them. he can only focus on how scary this is and how he'll never make his parents proud now. he's sorry he's disappointed them and the others.

but not once - onot once - does daylight regret taking the shot. ]

ii;;; and there is pansies, that’s for thoughts.

[ despite what he experiences the first time around, daylight decides to commit and continue to leave offerings on others' graves/markers/what-have-yous. his items to them are simple enough: paper flowers, many of them coming in different colours but made by his hand so they're prominent in size.

when he spots the person standing near their grave upon reaching it, daylight can't help but pause in his tracks. as if that'll stop them from noticing the looming boy, flower at hand. ]

Oh- Hey there. Um... I... [ he falls quiet for a few seconds, clearly unsure of what he can say or ask considering the circumstances. when he finally speaks up again, it's only so he can ask this question: ] Are you standing guard too?

[ it's something he noticed with others during the days of this weird, invasive cemetery popping up. and he can't blame the others, really. he understands why they're doing that and it makes him wonder if the one before him is also doing just that. ]

iii;;; one (1) new message.

[ at the start of hell week, just around the time that everyone is beginning to realise what the heck these graves could actually do, your character will be getting the following message from daylight.

it's surprisingly short and sweet for a chatterbox like daylight. perhaps a good thing, given the topic. ]

Hey- I think I found your marker. I swear I wasn't looking for it but I found it.

Can we talk?

[ ooc: this prompt is meant for individuals who have had friendly cr with daylight. feel free to assume he accidentally sent it to your character if we don't have cr! ]

iv;;; wildcard!!

[ want to do something else? feel free to do it here! also, you’re welcome to hit me up/plot with me via my plurk prognostic if there’s something specific you want. ]

[equinoctials]

[ Initially, it's the grandiosity of the monument that draws Riku, not any compulsion. It reminds him of Olympus and its towering structures, nestled amidst golden clouds. The light of his lantern turns the gilt portions to glowing, the marble almost mirror-like in its finish.

It's beautiful.
And warm, something the islander appreciates, that dry, baking heat reminds him of home.

But the name he reads on the plaque - Daylight - makes his blood freeze. It's an instinct, he realizes, like hearing about a neighbor's capsized boat after a storm. He knows they're all here because they're all dead, and yet, there's that moment of dread.

Daylight knows how to make an impression. The lasting one he made on Riku is one he can't help but like. The name suits him and his effervescent personality. It's...
A little sad to see the words on that plaque.
Deserved better.

Riku tucks his chin close to his collarbone, fists curled tight down by his sides, when the image arrives all at once in his thoughts: the nervous flutter of those winglets, how he had seemed simply happy to have someone to talk to, how earnest he was, how much like another dear friend. ]

Yeah. He did.

[ Then, like a seed planted in some forgotten corner, an idea occurs to Riku. During the heavy rains, when he and the others living in the boat house huddled in hammocks under the tarp that kept them reasonably dry, he had started idly carving at a wooden shingle that was too damaged to use.

Hours had passed this way, until what rested in his palm was a small star-shaped token. He had threaded a bit of cord through it, with half a mind to adding something to it later, shells, maybe. In the lightless days that followed, Riku was busy doing all manner of other chores around Beacon while the token remained in his pocket.

There's old lore behind charms like these. It's not a proper one, not made with the Thalassia shells that wash up on the shores of his island home, but it's the right shape for the token gift that's meant to guide one home.

Perhaps it was meant for Daylight all along, someone who was far from home and probably a little lonely, so the thought of leaving it there in his memory seems like a compelling one.

Seconds, maybe minutes later, Riku staggers back with his breath leaving his lungs in one hard and nearly soundless exhale. His palm spreads over his chest and finds...

Only him. No shattered chassis, no crippling agony. ]

Was that..?

Scarlett Harker | Open Prompts Within

[kungfuey]

♫ Dear God - Lawless

Grave & Death

[kungfuey]

All the people that you made in your image, see them fighting in the street
C.W. Suicide, Parental Death. Video contains violence.

[ There's nothing particularly striking about the tombstone in question. No decorative features, no words to remember the person by. Not even a date of birth or death adorns the face of it, just a name and only a last one at that;

Van Helsing
(( It begins with this 2 min video and carries over to the scene written out below. Note: Dark Blue = Abigail. Dark Red. = Dmitri. Black = Scarlett. ))

[ Scarlett struggles to breathe, barely able to squeeze enough air past the vice-like grip on her throat as she watches the decision register in the older woman's eyes. She doesn't need to hear her next words to know what's about to happen. They were more alike than either would get to realize. ]

Scarlett? [ Anguish twists the blond's features, a thousand apologies that would never be heard passing between them with a simple look. Scarlett still struggling in Dmitri's grip as Abigail's words - Her mother's words - rise above the buzzing in her ears as she tries to blink away the spots that dance in front of her eyes. ]


If the Elders were ever able to rejoin again, then the coffin to the Dark One can be reopened.
We can never let the elders create the proper pathway for him to return. Do you understand? We all die if that happens. Every last one of us.

Do you. Understand?

[ A dozen different scenarios play out in her head but every path leads her to one inevitable conclusion, Scarlett's eyes growing wet with unshed tears as she forces herself to watch what happens next. Their bodies hit the floor in unison, Dmitri loosening his grip along with a guttural scream of frustration at the sight of the pool of blood spreading around Abigail Van Helsing's body, the battle axe she'd been wielding only minutes ago, still lodged in her chest as Scarlett watches the light vanish from her mother's eyes. ]

Guess you're shit out of luck. [ That taunt worth it, even as each word burns its way past her vocal cords.

Scarlett swallows a cry as her head snaps back, Dmitri dragging her up to her feet by her hair, the brunette forcing him to drag her every step of the way as she struggles against his hold on her. Not to get away. No, it's far too late for that and he'd catch up to her before she could get more than ten feet, but to keep him from realizing what she's clutching in her hand as he drags her through her mother's blood. ]

I still have you.

[ A smile pulls its way across her lips, a glint of triumph shining in her eyes, Dmitri's awareness of her shift in mood coming too late as with a final surge of energy she twists free from his grip. There is no second guessing, just her mother's last words playing in her head as the blade slides beneath her ribcage. Blood spilling from the corner of her mouth as she wheezes out a barely audible laugh. ]

Y'sure 'bout that?

[ She doesn't feel the jarring of her body as her knees hit the rock. Dmitri's face filled with rage, blurring before her as darkness begins to encroach on her vision. His bellow sounds distant even as it fills the cavernous room, the Vampire rushing towards her with bared fangs just as her body pitches forward, driving the knife deeper as she ceases to see, hear or feel anything at all. ]

melisandre 🔥 asoiaf 🔥open prompts below

[voktys]

offerings & arts & crafts

[voktys]

( ➻ this is the easy part )

⟪ To a woman of the Faith such as herself, the giving of offerings is no strange urge –– still, their resources are limited, and the dead are… the dead are walking and in need of food and drink and other such things, and they need them in their hands, and not on their stones and shrines and tombs. Fire is limited, too, so she cannot do what she longs to do and burn her offerings, as she should.

Still, it won’t do, to leave the deaths unremembered, uncelebrated, or the loss in their worlds unacknowledged. So offerings need be made, in both senses of the word, and this is what Melisandre can be found doing through the week: making offerings.

On different days, she can be found in the tavern, at a table off to the site, writing prayers and things in strange languages on paper found at the shop, and later folding them into the shape of fire, or by the bonfire, making wreaths of herbs and plants, of which they have plenty and in abundance, and in the church, sitting among the pews with her needle and thread (scavenged from on layer of the dress she arrived in), embroidering flames on scraps of cloth.

She is willing to share, or teach, or listen to frustrated people who think all of this is a waste of time. If she is simply being watched, she’ll eventually ask ––⟫

Would you lend me a hand?

gene hicks | open prompts within

[preseance]

bonfire and elsewhere;

[preseance]

( gene'll be actively checkin' on folks should they show signs of shock or upset. this ain't a matter of blood an' bone but one of the soul, an' he's as attentive to that as he is to all manner of physical hurts.

should your character appear to need any comfortin' at all, he'll be there with a cup of some hot liquid appropriate to 'em (hot chocolate for the youths, coffee or hot soup for everyone else) an' he'll push it into their hands an' take up a place beside them.

this goes doubly for anyone puttin' themselves to work to destroy their grave. )

Hey. You got a minute?

Ignis Scientia || Final Fantasy XV

[reigniter]

The Grave

---

[They appeared, well, over night, no pun intended. Ignis has been watching them with rapt attention from afar, wary to come closer. But when the others started fumbling around visiting their own shrines, Ignis moved to see if... he had his own. With the way he died, he suspected there was one. Unless Gladiolus took care of it made something himself? Ignis wouldn't blame him if he didn't- amidst the chaos, Ignis is glad that he's not here as well.

He finds his altar faster than he expected. Perhaps that pull inside of him led him to it. The writing on it is in simple, elegant cursive and there was a picture of his daggers carved underneath it-]
Scientia, Ignis
Royal Advisor and Retainer to the Chosen King of Lucis
February 7, 734 M.E. - July, 756 M.E

The Death (warning: spoilers for Ignis DLC and ffxv Ending)

---

[To anyone that makes the offering- the vision starts simply enough. Four men decided to split- Gladiolus, Ignis, and Prompto to go handle the civilians, Noctis to go and meet with the Leviathan. The three would join him the moment others are secured. Handling the civilians was easy. Reaching Noctis who was mid-battle with Astral was not. The serpent raged over Altissia, even more so now that the Empire decided to step in as well. To kill the Astral before Noctis gets his blessing. 'I should have gone with him' runs through Ignis' mind before the bridge he was crossing gets blown up and Ignis himself gets thrown off to the river's current.

He's not sure how he survived that. But he did. Ignis reaches the shore and the battle begins. One after the other, magitek infantry come and Ignis pushes his way through them- slicing them up as they came. Many, too many of them, but Ignis didn't stop; he just uses a potion, switches up his elements and blows up the place. The fights become a blur; more often than not Ignis catches himself staring at the tall beacon of light coming from the Altar; constantly he catches himself repeating in his head 'be safe' as his daggers make another magitek soldier implode. A man joins him on the journey- tall with white hair. Ravus, brother of the Oracle. The scene of them talking blur into a battle between them on the altar- Ravus full of rage and grief while The Oracle and the King lay still in the back. The scene blurs again and the tall man mourns his sister and the heaven's rain cover up his tears.

Then comes the Usurper- the robotic soldiers easily overpower him and knock him down. The offer to join him or float away with the rest of them. His answer is obvious. With a cruel laugh, Usurper crouching down and picking his King by the collar and lifting him, ready to slice his throat.

The Ring falls from Noctis' hand and rolls Ignis' way. Usurper doesn't notice because Ravus throws a dagger at him. There isn't even a second of hesitation in Ignis as he grabs it. It feels like he can hear the whispers of the Old Kings coming from it. A final warning that Ignis doesn't heed. And proceeds to put the Ring on.

There was silence; like a standstill in time. The Old Kings judging whether Ignis should even be granted powers in the first place. But soon enough, A King vouches his loyalty and verdict is passed. And it's then that the pain begins. Searing, seeping through flesh burning away at him from the inside out, replacing such basic thing as blood with power. It burns- it burns so much. Ignis feels like he will die on the spot, without a chance to fight the Usurper. But he doesn't- the Ring keeps him alive, eats at his vision until it completely burns away, along with the last sight of Noctis, lying on the cold stone. But- it feels he doesn't have to see more than this; all of his senses are focused on his enemy.

The fight is long and tenacious. Every move Ignis makes seems to rip at his muscles and flesh yet his power doesn't wane. He draws it from the Ring, more and more, until he completely repels Usurper. Until the guy leaves and lets Ignis walk over to his King and fall at his side. He can still feel his body burn, overheated from the power he received, but it doesn't hurt anymore. His vision is black, and he knows what comes next.

Slowly, he pulls the ring off from his ashen finger and lets it roll over, hand falling inches away from Noctis'-]

Forgive me...

[-are his last words, before everything fades into darkness.]

The Thank You

---

[It's needless to say that Ignis visited several shrines of people he met here. And having made the offerings and experiencing their deaths, he feels guilty to anyone that felt compelled to leave anything at his shrine. His death was... incredibly painful. Not something anyone should experience.

So he keeps an eye on the visitors of his shrine. Not because he wants to see who remembers him, but out of fear they might feel weak, tired and overall exhausted. And whenever a person seems to stumble away in a daze from his shrine, Ignis will walk over to steady them on their feet and help them sit down.]

Here, this should help... [Ignis says quietly, putting a warm mug with tea in their hands, his voice laced with guilt.]

Wildcard

---

[ooc: If there's anything specific you want to play from the vision (e.g. the Prophecy Ignis witnessed (I had to cut it out because the death scene is long enough)), hit me up. Or for anything else, really! If you wanna plot, add me WindsongWitch ]

[carriedbylight]

( The little paper butterfly has been deposited upon the shrine, gifting Kairi with the violent experience of Ignis' death. It's painful. So incredibly painful. That any one person should be forced to endure something like that...and yet, he chose to. She stumbles away from the shrine, choking back a sob. Yes, Kairi feels exhausted from the experience, but she just feels so incredibly bad for the man who had to endure something like that. Only to end up dying at his friend's side.

The sound of his voice startles her a bit, prompting her to turn his direction and wipe at her eyes, drying any of the tears that might have been falling down her cheeks. )

Oh, thank you.

( Kairi moves her hands from her face and takes the mug from him, dipping her head in thanks. But after a moment, she looks to him, studying his face thoughtfully. )

...I'm sorry that you died that way.

ambrose spellman ( chilling adventures of sabrina ) ota

[necromantiae]

▶ 01. THE END IS THE BEGINNING?

---

Well, that's quite the sight.

( he's standing in front of a tombstone that, if he's honest, sends a thrum of fear through his body. up until now, he'd been rather blase about this whole death thing because he's been able to separate himself from the whole ordeal. he remembers the pain and the blood, the faces of his auntie and the voices swirling around.

but, he remembers little else. and now, here he is staring at the evidence of his mortality. it's jarring. he doesn't like it. he wants a drink. )

Ambrose Spellman
1929-2019
Loved and Missed.

( he reads the inscription a few times and tries to be force himself into something lighter, less dour. he doesn't want to seem too affected when the truth is that he's very, very affected. )

Couldn't write me a little more about me, eh? The etcher must have been paying by the letter. ( he sighs, shoulder slumping. try as he might, he can't avoid thinking about what happened.

he remembers it vividly still, about his aunt sneaking him in the pieces of build a skeleton key. auntie hilda, so much smarter than people gave her credit for. he remembers using it to throw open the doors to the cell and he remembers running. the sound of his feet slapping against the floor is loud in his ears.

he remembers making it to the front door of the academy of unseen arts and throwing open the doors. and there they were. witch hunters. witch hunters with the faces of angels and all ambrose could do was scream. warn everyone else despite the fact that he'd spent the last several days locked and tortured.

warn them and hope that they escaped. he'd tried to use magic, to fight but they were much more powerful than typical witch hunters and they'd taken him apart. there was so much blood. his prison jumpsuit was splattered with it and he remembers making it to the chapel and falling. he remembers his aunt again, trying to save him.

he remembers it being futile. dying, he recalls, had been so, so painful. the blood pouring from his body, lodged in his throat, and pouring out in dangerous amounts.

he hadn't even been able to say goodbye. )

▶ 02. NOT TODAY, SATAN.

---

( he doesn't stay at the sight of the graves for long. he's never really thought himself afraid of death but that doesn't mean he wants to witness something so personal and private multiple times over.

instead, he retreats to the inn, to the bar and props himself up there, making quick work of the drinks the bartender put in front of him.

he wasn't drunk, not yet, but he planned on getting there. what else was there for a dead man to do in a place like this? it was drinking or sex to forget and he hadn't yet figured out if the latter was even plausible in the afterlife. )

▶ 03. WILDCARD.

---

( i'm down for almost anything so throw it at me. feel free to hmu at spoonishly. )

graveside stuff;

[preseance]

( he's done leavin' offerings, now he knows what it entails. even prayer's right out, as he learned with wash. but he's still makin' the rounds. payin' special attention to any of the folks lingering by their own. maybe it's a matter'a them not bein' able to accept it. maybe, like wash, they're guardin' it against further intrusion.

they ain't talked but once, but he likes the fella. reminds him of reggie, an' in the wake of seein' him again while relivin' his own death — he finds himself drawn to him on the grounds of the good company an' that account as well.

but that 1929 catches his eye. not just for the date itself — a year before robbie was born — but the date that follows it. he ain't got rhyme or reason as to how it might be possible. maybe beacon made a mistake, maybe the fella died elderly an' in bed an' this place just happened to call him back in his prime. he won't ask.

they met over a drink, so gene hands him a flask without a word. he ain't got nothin' left to smoke, so he's turned to the other soldier's vice. )

For what it's worth, least they're nice letters.

Rosalind Lutece; OTA

[originallutece]

grave; believe me darling the stars were made for falling;

[It's a terribly simple memorial. Almost insultingly so, frankly: a small headstone with one name and two dates carved on it: R Lutece, 1871 - 1909. Two candles are set atop it, one all but burnt down, the other standing tall and strong. Occasionally the former's flame will stutter, but it refuses to go out, no matter what breeze picks up through the air.

Maybe you leave it at that. But if not . . .

You're in a building. A home. A place that's loved, filled to the brim with books and paintings, worn couches and wooden floors-- and then, further back, even footsteps as you head to your laboratory, with him at your side. He's so neatly dressed, his red hair perfectly set in place, his blue eyes amused as he listens to you argue. You're picking a fight with him over something stupid and pointless, one of those yes-I-did no-you-didn't things that don't matter, that you love because no one else ever, ever keeps up the way he does.

You keep it up as you reach the machine. An enormous thing, so big it goes from one floor into another, crashing through the ceiling in a contained sort of haphazardness. Tap the buttons and pull the lever, your fingers flying over the familiar controls, your attention still caught by him (always, always, you love him so much, you adore him, you'd do anything for him, you'd give him the world, you can't imagine a life without him). The machine roars to life, and that's your first hint. It shouldn't make that noise. It shouldn't-- you tear your gaze away, and it sounds wrong, it sounds labored, gears grinding awfully and wires surging with voltage they were never meant to handle, crackling to life, except it's wrong wrong wrong, it's lightning sparking everywhere, bathing you both in blue light, glass beakers shattering all around you, your teeth buzzing and the hair on your arms standing as it surges in power, and you look over at him, and--

--you know, in that moment, that there's nothing you can do. There's no point to running. You have seconds, if that, and you hate it. You never once thought you would die, not really, not the way others do, you're too smart for that, you're too brilliant, blazing bright burning, utterly immortal, and yet somehow, impossibly, here you are. You take his hand, and it feels so good in yours. Warm and large, his fingers wrapping tight around yours.

It's not fair. You tore him from another world and you've gotten so little time with him, it's not fair, you saved him, it's not fair, you've only spent a handful of years together (and it's despair but it's fury, it's rage, it's not fair and nor is life but you've spent all your years making things fair, and he can't be torn from your side, not yet, not when there's still so much left--)

"Do you have any regrets?" he asks, and there's something terrible about the forced cheer in his tone. His mouth is turned upright, and there's such love in his gaze as he looks down at you.

"Don't be silly," you say, and turn in towards him, into him, even as the machine roars and screams. "Of course I do."

And then there's a noise louder than anything, and an agony that's so bright, so embittering, so awful and terrifying and no--]

bonfire; now that existence is on the wake let's see what we can make;

[It's awful, working without light. Someone ought to fix that. Someone ought to fix a lot of things here, actually, starting from the lack of light and ending in the lack of anything scientific. It means she's forced to socialize if she wants to get any work done, sitting at the bonfire instead of locked away in her room. She's bent over something, but though you'd be forgiven for thinking it formulas, it's not.

It's a drawing.

A portrait, more specifically. It's of a young man, neatly combed hair and a faint smile. It's in pencil, so it's impossible to see eye and hair color, but he does bear a passing resemblance to her. She's really very good, it seems; not, perhaps, whimsical or particularly artistic, but on a technical level, she gets the job done.

But she's more than a little protective of it. She stiffens if someone sits too close, moving to flip to another page.]

wildcard;

[You know what to do.]

[nonscriptum]

[ He wasn't trying to be invasive, when he left a little drawing of a set of chemistry beakers rolled up on a scrap of paper torn from his sketchbook.

Madam Rosalind Lutece's headstone was the first one Nate did this for, the first one that struck him square in the chest with electricity that crackled over his skin and pressed into his body. The forlorn sort of regret at knowing another person who was close, closer than anything and anyone and the loss of that person as it eats away at you, festers. When Sam let go of Nate's hand fifteen years ago, too weak to be pulled up the side of the wall and Nate watched him fall through scaffolding and corrugated metal, he remembers the agony of having part of his own heart torn out.

When you had no one else to start with, it cuts all the deeper. ]

That's pretty good.

[ He says before he can help himself, catching the drawing before the page turns and he knows the motion well - he's done it himself, wanting to avoid having people know his private thoughts even as he commits them to paper. Nate lifts his lantern as he seats himself next to her. ]

Need some more light?

nathan drake ♦ open prompts within

[nonscriptum]

hodie mecvm eris in paradiso ♦ death

[nonscriptum]

[ The air is hot and sticky, a humidity thick with the scent of lush jungle and plant life, sweat beading down the back of his neck as birds call far behind them, below them. At the edge of a cliff and a disadvantage Nate (for once) knows better than to push his luck, doing his best to defuse the volatility.

He thought he'd talked them down.

Foolishly, perhaps, but negotiations have never been Nate's strong suit and the best he is capable of doing is providing a genuine, honest case for their lives - for Sam's life. More than anything he wants this over with, wants to loosen the noose around his brother's neck and pay his debt for him after everything Sam suffered in prison. Fifteen years behind bars, and God, Nate owes him. He owes him everything.

Fifteen years since he's seen Rafe Adler in person, and it has to be at gunpoint. The mercenaries behind him are vigilant, their leader - Nadine, and Christ she can throw a punch - impassive and tense, waiting. Impatient. Nate knows he and Sam have been a thorn in their collective sides since the grift at the auction and she would like nothing better than to throw them off of the nearest outcrop, but Rafe is wallowing in their helplessness and Nate knows it's deserved.

Sam interrupts him, tries to stop him from mentioning the debt, the prison break, the Butcher of Panama and his threat should Samuel Drake not retrieve the treasure in return for his liberty, and Rafe looks at him as though he's suddenly grown two heads. ]

What the Hell are you talking about, Nate? Hector Alcázar died in a shoot-out in Argentina like six months ago. I'm the one who got Samuel out.

[ It hits him slowly, confusion first. Looking to Sam while Sam refuses to look at him, and a broad smile stretches across Rafe's face as he realizes something that Nate doesn't - not yet. His tone shifts for the conversational and the words roll in ceaselessly as Nate stares, struck dumb. Numbed to his core he listens in stunned silence as what he knows is picked apart and he can barely hear Rafe for the sudden rushing of wind in his ears, blood or anger or both.

Sam wasn't in prison for fifteen years. It was thirteen. Thirteen, and two spent in Rafe's company, researching Henry Avery, keeping distance, never making contact. Never reaching out despite knowing where Nate was. Letting Nate think he was dead, feeding him some bullshit story about a drug lord and a break out that never happened but Nate was too stupid to check, didn't think to not trust his brother, the family he thought he failed a decade and a half ago.

He denies the story and Rafe shrugs, gesturing at Sam and his brother turns with that telltale face, the same hangdog expression he used to give Nate when they were kids, when he was trying to make up for something. "Nate-" he starts and the name feels foreign when Sam has only ever called him Nathan, and he pushes him away, suddenly feeling sick after everything he ran roughshod over to get them here. Somewhere beyond the pounding in his head, back in the conversation, Rafe laughs.

He had pushed Elena away for this. Pushed Sully away, so desperate to make amends for something that had never truly been his fault in the first place, and Nate only scrabbles his way back into forming sentences when Rafe lifts his gun in Sam's direction. Wanting nothing more than to clock his brother across the jaw he tries again, deciding he can beg Sam for a reason later, when they're still alive and kicking. Nate steps in. ]

Hey, you miss one clue, and you can kiss that treasure goodbye. You said it yourself; you keep running into dead ends. Why don't you face it, Rafe. You need us.

[ For one long, excruciating second Rafe seems to contemplate the offer, and Nate almost thinks he'll take it. The Colt lowers- ]

Yeah, you're right. You're half-right.

[ -and then trains on Nate. ]

I just need Sam.

[ It happens too quickly. Nate protests with an arm outstretched as that dispassionate gaze settles on him, Sam moves in without warning, the gun discharges. For the briefest of instants Nate shut his eyes in acceptance, expecting a bullet that never finds its mark. It clips Sam's shoulder as his brother darts between them and the sudden jerk, the impact, checks Nate in the chest hard. He falls back and the weightlessness is familiar even as his stomach lurches, like missing a step at the top of a stair.

The landscape around him rushes past in a blur of green before he can grab a hold of something, anything, and with a sickening sound his forehead cracks against the cliffside before everything goes dark. ]

Riku | Kingdom Hearts | ota

[equinoctials]

the grave

The altar resembles a shallow basin on a trio of long legs. In the space between each, the basin is engraved with stylized images that presumably describe certain events being memorialized. To the left, a figure carrying a broadsword-like weapon faces off against a swirling storm. To the right, the same figure floats in an empty space. The third space (on the opposite side) reads:

Riku
Keyblade Master

The effects of leaving an offering are listed here.

About halfway through the week, once Riku has learned of the effects of offerings and discovered his own monument, the delphic tripod will be covered by a dingy drop cloth as his way of preventing others from being... well, inconvenienced.

around beacon

Riku prefers to keep himself busy and can be seen doing menial tasks that mainly deal with solving problems around Beacon, such as patching up potholes with flat stones and wet sand, some light carpentry to fix doors and leaking rooftops, moving furniture and scavenging for materials around the outskirts of the currently known territory.

His routine shifts a little given the mysterious arrival of the altars and memorials. If Riku is troubled by his own experiences with them, he isn't inclined to share his thoughts. This does nothing to prevent him from checking in on those who seem distressed.

Riku may not have much - like all of them, he arrived with his own meager belongings - but sometimes all a person needs is someone else to be present. Someone who takes a moment to ask:

"You okay?"

[carriedbylight]

"Yeah. I'm okay." Kairi says in reply, though her tone and expression seem a bit distant. Ever since the appearance of the shrines, her typical bright, cheerful attitude is has been a bit dulled. It isn't really a mystery as to why. There are so many reminders of painful deaths all around them and, should someone leave an offering, they are to experience those deaths first hand. While she does feel for the many people who have lost their lives, experiencing the death of those close to her has been particularly difficult. Kairi hasn't talked to Riku about it, not yet. She's been trying to process it on her own, but there are questions that are eating away at her.

And today seems like as good of a day as any to ask him about it.

She turns to look toward Riku more directly, her bright blue eyes tinged with violet immediately moving to his face. He won't lie to her. He'll tell her what happened, even if it's painful. But is she really ready to hear the truth? "Riku, I need you to tell me what happened." Kairi begins, reaching out to take hold of one of Riku's hands between her own. "What happened? I visited your shrine, so I've seen it, but...I need to know. What happened to Sora that ended up with the both of you dead?" It's about as blunt as Kairi can possibly put it, but she can't leave room to wiggle out of telling her. After all, this is a subject they've danced around since they arrived.

"Please...Tell me."

irwin wade ➣ saving private ryan ➣ open prompts below

[sulfa]

[ Beside Gene's battlefield cross is Irwin's own, his red cross helmet and dog tags abandoned on the stock. The soil piled on top of it is fresh; it would seem that the body was interred within the past few hours. It hasn't been, of course - Wade is here, in the afterlife, walking around and reading the inscriptions on the graves of others.

Those who leave an offering will experience the following. ]

cw: blood, gore

[sulfa]

1. h HOUR ON d DAY : fragments of the d-day landing [optional prelude] [ scene can be watched here. link timestamped for wade's first appearance. ] Your face is wet before you've even touched the water. The cold black waves pitch and throw the landing craft like a ragdoll, spraying salt water into your face, your nose, your mouth, your eyes. Over the past two hours pretty much everyone's vomited - nerves probably play a role, but between the gross oversaturation of adrenaline in your blood and the constant jerks of the craft it would be a miracle if you didn't puke. Nonetheless, you're one of the guys who doesn't. Breathe in. Out. Again. You're not shaking, either. About half of the guys are. Maybe you're less present than them - because you're scared too, God, you're scared, but if you die you die and if you don't you don't and what matters is holding that death off for as long as possible. The longer you're alive, the more people you can keep from dying. "Now!" The gate drops and welcomes in the German gunfire. The kid next to you jerks and falls motionless into the water mid-breath as his neighbors scramble past his momentarily upright corpse. --- You don't think as you fight your way up the beach, weave around the bodies, spit out sand as it sprays into your mouth over and over. Screaming - men are shrieking their lungs out everywhere you go. There's blood all over, more than you've ever seen in your life. The gunfire and explosions of mortars are deafening, almost disorienting. You focus on the task ahead of you, let the world and the looming chance of your own death twist and fade as the blinkers lower onto your face. --- "Move on to someone you can help!" Another shelling. Without removing pressure from the hemorrhaging wound on your patient's thorax you cover him with as much of your own body as you can. The dirt and sand and black-red mist of human remains shower down on you instead of his wounds. "He's battalion surgeon, Sir!" And you're so close. So close. Just a minute, two minutes, he'll be stable. He loosely grasps your forearm as you work, seemingly just to have something to hold on to. More gunfire, closer this time, or so it seems - it's impossible to tell what's close and what's far when flying bullets are engulfing you from every angle like a swarm of lead locusts. You grab the chest of the corpse in front of you and roll it onto its side for a little more cover. Shots pelt it in an instant. And then - beautifully - DeForrest, Battalion Surgeon, stops bleeding. His rapid descent toward death freezes. You have a split second to catch your breath. "I got it!" you yell - you have to if you want to be heard, and your throat is raw for it - "We stopped the bleeding! We stopped the bleeding!" A metallic clang. A bullet punches through his helmet and he goes motionless. Dead. The past several minutes and desperate effort vanishes in the blink of an eye. "Fuck!" You scream. Throw the now-fucking-useless bandages on the sand. "Just give us a fucking chance, you son of a bitch! Son of a fucking cocksucker!" "Wade! Come on!" Someone grabs your shoulder, exerts enough force to push you down as you try to straighten up so the Kraut bastards who just picked off your patient can get a proper look at you. "Wade! Wade, it's Mellish! Wade!" You fall onto your back in the sand as he drags you - all you can do is scream. "Fuck, fuck, fuck--!" and then halfway through the reality crashes down on you, the futility, the fact that you can't fucking help anyone here because they're just going to get blown to fucking pieces three seconds later if you do. Oh my God, Oh my God, Oh my God. You're in hysterics when you both slam into the steep sand of the seawall and Mellish lets go of your collar, crying like you haven't since you were four or five as reality overwhelms every circuit in your brain. Another shell crashes into the seawall. A guy a few bodies down the line shrieks bloody murder. "Oh my God! My arm! Somebody!" The emotions, the fear, the selfhood that occluded any ability for coherent thought a matter of seconds ago all vanish. Everything stops. You scramble through the sand in the direction of the senior medical officer and the new casualty like an automaton. Blood geysers from his upper arm in spurts. The wound's arterial. You press a clump of red bandages to the wound with one hand and fumble for his brachial artery with the clamp you're holding in the other. His blood sprays onto your face as you work, running down your nose and off of your bottom lip. You can taste it, hot and metallic among the grit of the sand on your tongue and teeth. "Oh my God, it hurts! I'm going to die! Oh my God! Oh, Jesus! Oh, God! God! God help me!" "You're not gonna die! You're not gonna die!" You deliberately project confidence - urgent, but calm. You have to. "You're not gonna die! You're fine! Don't look-- don't look at it!" You jam your elbow downwards, separating his line of sight from the welter of his torn arm, and shield your patient with your own body as inorganic and organic debris rains down on you from another mortar blast close enough to rock the sandy earth underneath you.

number five | open prompts below

[fogey]

the grave, itt z desperately hopes her dates are right

[fogey]

[ the tombstone is a simple affair: grey stone, not much ornamenting it. inscribed, in curling letters: ]

Number Five
October 1 1989 - March 29 2019

[ 1) his name actually is, apparently, number five. 2) those dates sure are about 30 years apart, for all that he doesn't look a day over 13 and has told a handful of people he's actually pushing sixty.

five doesn't stand guard over his grave or try, in any way, to dissuade people from leaving offerings. he may, however, teleport immediately behind your character, should they be standing near his grave, scowling impressively. ]

Enjoying the show?

[ world's grumpiest jumpscare, reporting for duty. ]

Elden | Original

[spitefullight]

Death

[spitefullight]

[ When the offering is made before the grave, the images begin to hit;

A crowd of people stand before a large fountain, all finely dressed and put together. There is chatter about them, tension thick in the air as they were wondering what was going on. They all look up towards seven figures standing on the rim of the fountain and those figures looked back. The thoughts in Elden's mind as he stood beside his six other compatriots was "how are we going to convince these nobles we're in the right?" He felt so tense coming to this thing because every time something went well, something always bad reared it's stupid head.

That bubble of paranoia persists up until Theron, his best friend stepped forward and began talking to the crowd. Elden stood at attention as one by one the other members of the Inquisition began to speak to the crowd. Each had their own words of inspiration or threat. It was enough to give Elden an idea what he needed to say next.

When Nereva stepped down from speaking, she gave Elden a nod and the boy nodded back. He approached, taking centre now so attention would be on him. For now, he would shove that niggling feeling of dread down. He's done this before, talking to crowds, this would be no different. He exhaled a breath to relieve the tension in his chest, eyes closed and then open, his expression shifting to resolution. A boy no longer stands in front of this crowd but a young man with fire in his eyes. ]

Nobles of Fellengar, if any of you have any information on our enemies please give it to us now. The Vizier has lied to you, all of you! He seeks to ruin this city with the help of Larathal, the goddess of Undeath. We've seen his work and the work of his people and he doesn't want anything good for our city! [He makes a wide gesture out to the city, his brows furrowing.]

We've come so far to bring this city back out of the darkness and he would see that come crashing down! He's used children to blow up our homes, attempted to kidnap the rightful ruler of the city, he murdered the leader of our Inquisition! If you value your lives or that of your family, help us now! If you come forward, you will receive fair trials.


If not, there is no place you can hide that will escape the sun's light.

[ His words are confident and bold as he stands a bit taller now, his eyes more significant and carrying with it the power of his goddess and the might of the Inquisition with him.]

You will burn if you stand against this city and the people who live in it. Now, will you stand with us and protect what's good?!

[ He can't help but smile a little triumphantly, feeling as if he his words had reached them alongside his companions. But, soon triumphant turned to shock as he felt it.

An arrow launched and now sitting in his throat. He can't hear it, the screams in the crowd, the screams of his friends. He just hears white, as his fingers shake and blood begins to pour. There's no stopping it as he finds himself on his knees, reaching for the fatal arrow to pull it from his neck. What once felt like victory turned to ash and he could feel warmth streaming down his face. Not blood, but tears. A sickening pit forming in his stomach as he realized he's failed more than just a stupid little speech. He should've seen the archer, he should've cast more protections over himself.

Everything he did to avoid from dying to keep his friends from death all was for naught. His gaze shifts towards Theron, his best friend and not much older than him. The worst fear was that he wouldn't be around to keep the person who helped him the most safe. His chest tightens more as his body begins to shake violently as the terror of death begins to creep upon him. Elden's eyes began to well with those tears of panic, the ones he shed so little as the darkness began to crash around him.

Then he hits the ground, the last words running through his mind;

"Please...please not yet. They need me. I....

I don't want to die...."

Then nothing.]

Mary | ota | prompts below

[withsadness]

GRAVE GUARDING

[withsadness]

[Anyone who comes across Mary's grave will find that the girl isn't acting very, well...girlish. There's a manic look in her eyes as she paces restlessly in front of her small, distinctively childish grave. It seems like she's talking to herself, mumbling under her breath, but shes snaps her head toward anyone who approaches, stopping immediately. There's something pointed grasped in one hand, though for now, it rests by her side. Still, the tension in her entire body can't be called unthreatening.]

Leave.

[It isn't a request.]

Washington | all prompts OTA

[hardwearing]

[ The headstone over Wash's grave is small, very plain, and heavily weathered. The edges are crumbling as if it's been forgotten and uncared for and much like the man it belongs to it has visible scars, gouges in the grey stone that obscure parts of the engraving. It's more or less a traditional military marker, including rank and wars fought, but isn't immediately identifiable as Wash's... because that's not the name he was born with. The symbol at the top is simple and nondescript. ]

DAVI? ???TER
FREE?????R UNSC MC
HUM????OVENANT WAR
CHORUS
NULL CONF????
APR 4 2526 - JUN 15 ????

[ ooc: I'm up for anything, feel free to tag with a wildcard or hmu at cuddlebug or in the discord if you need to plot! ]

i; death (two for one!) and destruction (July 12)

[hardwearing]

[ Those who leave an offering at Wash's grave will suddenly be thrown into a war zone. It's like something out of a science fiction movie and viewing it through his eyes means you're also inside his armor, his helmet's HUD flashing proximity alerts and status messages as he fights. No one else around him seems to be in armor as they struggle to hold their position around an old, alien-looking temple, but stranger than his comrades' lack of equipment are the enemies themselves.

The Null are a race of shapeshifting robots, and in this case have been specifically engineered to kill. Although they vary in size and form they are all articulated with hundreds of thousands of small moving parts and seem to be constantly rearranging and adapting to attack or protect or repair themselves, and they're communicating instantaneously through a hivemind although none of them "speak." Some are like tanks, others small and spindly and agile, still others seem to have an extra protective exoskeleton and carry strange cylinders with them. The largest among them are about eight feet tall and 2500 lbs, and they dramatically outnumber the group that Wash is with... and just keep coming, firing off crippling electric blasts from a distance to stun targets in hopes of getting a clean kill with what looks like a laser cutter.

Wash is exhausted, hungry, and hurting, running low on ammo and having trouble keeping track of the chaos around him. Although many of the fighters (Wash included) are mostly using conventional weapons like guns and explosives and swords, there are also magic users attacking with lightning, ice, and fire, summoning shields and spectral entities to help. It's a whirlwind of metal and movement and cacophonous sound, and they can't stop. This is endgame, if they lose this fight they lose the war, and no one will be spared.

At first, Wash is dismissing the alerts on his HUD about as fast as they're coming in. But then a motion tracker to his right seems to get his attention and he turns just in time to see one of the fortified Null units closing in on a small woman with dark hair and pointed ears. Many observers will recognize her as someone in Beacon, some might even know her name is Kyna. She raises her hands and an obviously powerful bolt of lightning hits the machine, but it doesn't seem affected like the others. It only speeds up, skittering forward on three elegant metal limbs far faster than the woman can scramble back. Wash breaks into a run, but it's no use -- he isn't even halfway there when the robot stabs her in the abdomen and then shakes her body off its weapon, leaving her to fall to the ground in a crumpled heap.

The cold terror that rushes through Wash is all-encompassing, panic and denial and the irrational belief that if he can just get to her, she'll be fine. Unfortunately for everyone, this was never going to be the case, but especially not when Wash screams her name and starts firing at the Null as he gets closer. It turns to him and with eerily smooth movements raises the cylinder held in its other upper limb. He's too overwhelmed by the need to kill it and get to Kyna to dodge what he thinks is just going to be an electric blast his armor will take the brunt of, but what hits him instead is far worse. As he stumbles back he suddenly has no idea what's going on.

Where is he? Was he fighting? There's definitely a fight happening, but what was he doing...? He looks down at himself, giving the viewer a good look at his armor as he raises his hands in bewilderment, and when he glances back up the Null is on top of him. To add insult to injury he's too stunned by the brain scrambler to even attempt to defend himself, and it stabs its laser cutter straight through the chest plate of his armor and drags it down diagonally. His HUD blares warnings, but they're unnecessary. Wash doesn't need his armor to tell him he's done for, the blood already bubbling up into his mouth, splattering on the inside of his helmet. The pain is unbearable, but at least it won't last long, and honestly that's not what hurts the most. He drops heavily to his knees and the Null moves away impassively, on to the next target, giving him a clear view of Kyna lying a few meters away, obviously dead.

Again, he's failed. He couldn't even make it there. There are a few final frantic thoughts as the battle fades out around him, mostly incoherent. The names of friends he can't call out to because he's choking on his own blood and hysterical bursts of grief, then a fleeting and unclear "we can't lose" and "he'll bring her back."

She's the last thing he sees before he falls visor-first into the dirt. ]

--

[ As soon as Wash is compelled to leave his first offering and realizes what's happening -- an event, it's a bullshit event, just like Hadriel had, and if the lighthouse keeper is another wannabe god screwing with them for their own benefit he fucking swears -- he goes hunting for his and smashes it to bits with a borrowed sledgehammer. No one needs to see his death, to feel what he felt, or to know his name. If someone already made an offering... sucks for them, but at least it won't be an issue anymore. Right?

Anyone who sees this memory is welcome to figure out Wash's identity whether they've seen his armor or not, based on Kyna's presence and obvious importance. The two of them are usually together around town and they're not very subtle. ]

kara ( detroit: become human ) open prompts below

[chores]

grave digging

[chores]

( it's a simple scene, gray stone and a bright blue triangle at the center: )

AX400 #579 102 694
April 2032 - November 2038

( in truth, kara is more surprised that she has a place among the other graves. no one back home would bother to bury an android nor do something like give them a stone to be remembered. she'd be recycled, thrown into a dump and forgotten. so it doesn't hurt that her grave doesn't bear her name, the name alice had given her and ultimately: she gives a tired sigh.

it's only when someone approaches near her that she looks up, eyes wet but not crying as she shakes her head. )

There's nothing of interest here.

Arya Stark ⤞ Game of Thrones & A Song of Ice and Fire ⤞ open & closed

[facelessgirl]

no one dies ⤞ open!

[facelessgirl]

Arya Stark
Brought death his end
287 AC - 305 AC
[ It's carved into the based of a huge stone tomb, rough and aged, as though it was hewn from the deep rock below Winterfell hundreds, perhaps thousands of years before her death. Because it was. The stone carvings of the statues above it are fresher, sharper: a short, willowy, boyish young woman with a sword on her right hip and an ornate dagger on her left, life-sized and brooding. She has a long face and eyes carved sad and serious. Around her feet, a stone direwolf bristles. The lid is heavy stone and very thick.

Arya is not protecting her tomb, and when an offering is laid the memory begins in a wicked spring storm. Gales and salt spray and a rocking deck beneath you so fierce and wild the confusion is a slap to the face and you can barely catch your breath. The salt is in your eyes and the storm is in your ears and every surface is slick with the sea, but your crew is looking to you. You barely recognize the voice screaming through the storm as your own, and the end of the rains is a chaos of lost sailors and screams and the snapping and lashings of broken ropes and shredded sails. When the weather breaks you are too exhausted to be glad, conscious only of one thing: you lived.

For now.

Because when the sun rises, it rises to a becalmed sea as smooth as glass. No wind, not a breath, and when the remaining crew is counted and the stores are inventoried, the news is dire. Almost all the fresh water is gone, and most of the food. A fear deeper than the panic of the storm clutches your heart, but your men are watching. Men who'd pledged themselves to you, who you led into this. On a whim. All will be well, you tell yourself, for the winds will return soon. After such a storm, surely another breeze will come to blow you in one compass direction or another. Any will do.

No winds come. On the third day, the weakest of your crew begin to fall. Rationing the water does not help. A fight breaks out, and you are forced to kill both men to keep anything like it from happening again, the blood as slick as the sweat on your palms, an exertion that you cannot afford to waste. By your insistence, your men are fed to the sea, because you are not yet desperate enough to entertain anything else. The wind might yet come.

No wind comes. The water is gone too fast for the true horrors of a dire ship to set in, and the last day is agony. Your leathers are so dry and salted and tight that breathing alone is difficult. You cannot swallow. Your tongue is too big for your mouth, and the sun... the sun...

There's a shadow before it, a soft low voice, rough and northern at the edges. Father. You cannot make out the words, because father doesn't have a head. The whispers come from the gruesome stump where it should be, but the shape that materializes beside him does have a head. A wolf's head, red and raw and terrible, nailed to your brother's noble shoulders to make a monster for a nightmare. He's still in his armour, blood still dripping from Grey Wind's hackled and mangled neck.

Did it bring us back? Your mother, holding your brother's hand, ghostly pale, deadly pale. Her throat a gaping red smile, rotted and decayed. You'd heard they'd thrown her in the river. In the death dream, Catelyn Stark's gown drips with the waters of the trident.

What you did to the Freys.

Root and stem.

Did it bring us back?

The pain is gone by the time you die. Only the fear and the defeat remain, nestled close, whispering to you until the end. You die too delirious to see the stars, to find the Ice Dragon.

You die knowing it didn't have to be and you awake before the tomb, open now and yawning empty. A brave and foolish loss. ]

javert | ota

[policier]

bonfire

[policier]

( His is nothing but a simple white gravestone, without any embellishments or adornments. Just an inscription carved into the stone, designating his name and police rank, his birth date and his death.
Javert
Inspecteur de 1ère classe
1780-1832
He doesn't expect anyone is mourning him back home. The only legacy he has ever had is his work. It was the only thing he ever cared about, and even that ended up being tarnished, in the end. His fingers trace carefully over the word "inspecteur," and all of a sudden, Javert feels compelled to leave an offering. He rummages around in his pocket, pulling out his glass encased police badge, stamped with the arms of France on one side and his endorsement on the other, and sets it down in front of his tombstone.

The hallucination hits him unexpectedly, and once the entire torturous affair is over, Javert is in a cold sweat. He gets up, and rushes out of the cemetery like a bat out of hell, only stopping once he reaches the outskirts of the cemetery. He breathes in and out, and takes a seat near the bonfire once he's calmed himself down a little bit. He looks over at the person sitting nearest him, and after a moment of great internal debate and difficulty, he asks, awkwardly, )

What do you do to distract yourself?

( Javert never asks for help, so this is a big thing for him. )

Rastus | NPC

[cawdad]

[Rastus's shrine is very simple: Three foot-long sticks leaned against each other to form a rough pyramid with one ragged red feather balanced at the apex. If you decide to leave an offering...

You are asleep. You are dreaming of a swamp and of alligators and of fireflies sparkling over the Spanish moss. It is warm. Then it is cold. Then you wake up on the ferry. Then you hear the foghorn.

If you'd like to talk to Rastus about this vision, he can be found not too far away, watching over the bonfire. As always.]

[ooc: if you just want the vision and don't want to chat with him, that's fine! just drop me a note here to let me know what offering you've left.]

[reigniter]

[Ignis doesn't know if Rastus would even like Ignis' offering- do half-crows even eat cookies? Regardless, he leaves the package at his shrine, as a small token of appreciation. He does, after all, keep the bonfire safe. Maybe the only reason they are still up and about this place and not hiding in some corners like rats.

The vision of Rastus' death is not what he expected. It was peaceful and mellow... did he die in his sleep? A peaceful way to go. He looks over to him and slowly approaches him.]

The vision I got... may I ask, where are you from, Rastus?

Ben Winters | NPC

[scrapcap]

[Winters' shrine is a short pillar of stone, on top of which is a dim, flickering hologram of his face. His name is inscribed on the front, and a collection of rocks is stacked up around the pillar.

Would you like to leave an offering? He has... a few options to choose from in terms of deaths.]

[ooc: if you just want a vision and don't want to chat with him, that's fine! just drop me a note here to let me know what offering you've left. or, if you would like to talk to him, he'll be at the harbor, standing at the end of the dock.]

[originallutece]

[She wants the vision and she'll go to find him later on.]

Jo Harvelle | OTA

[knifecollecting]

[Prompts to be posted below.]

Her death

[knifecollecting]

[It's a simple marker, a wooden cross tied together with twine. The cross bears one name, Joanna Beth Harvelle. It's small enough that the name barely fits and contains no other information - no dates, nothing else usually found on a grave marker.

If one deigns to approach and leave an offering, they'll find themselves transported to a small town street.

It's too quiet, but suddenly it's too loud. Never met the demon in this meat suit, but I know the name. Meg.

She brought Hellhounds. Not like the invisible Reapers standing around waiting for Lucifer to raise Death aren't enough, gotta bring some giant-ass invisible dogs too? But no, we can't give up here.

The Colt would help, but there are too many. We need somewhere to regroup, one of the shops. The boys are back there, but-

Shit.

We can't do this without Dean. He has the Colt. We need to get these bitches off us, get to Lucifer.

This would be easier if we could see them. Shotgun'll get me close enough.

One, two, not hitting the trash can so I must be hitting one of them.

Fuck- what the hell was that? I can see why-

Someone's talking, someone's got me, but there's so much blood. Glad I didn't like dogs growing up, this would really put me off them. Dean's moving too fast, I can't see. I'm already dizzy, that can't be good.

Time- how long has it been? I've been on comfier floors, this place sucks. I don't think I'm getting out of here.

My legs are numb, I can't feel my fingers much either.

We can't stop here. They can't give up. If Lucifer gets Death...

He'll take out everyone. Humanity.

Fucking hardware stores, everything we need except a doctor. If I'm not getting out of here, neither are those bitches.

I have an idea.

Mom shouldn't stay. I can't make her leave. She's right, I can't move and-

They're all going to suffer for this. Send them right back to Hell.]

kyna midha | open prompts below

[evocation]

[Kyna's grave is a polished, slanted dark granite headstone, the type you'd find in any modern cemetery. It's relatively simple, though there are ornate flowers carved delicately to frame the epitaph—white heather and verbena, for those with a keen eye. The carved text reads:

Kyna Gabriela Midha
Loving Daughter and Sister
August 2nd, 1994 — June 15th, XXXX

Unlike many of the other shrines, its owner herself won't be found anywhere near it. She avoids it like the plague.]

the invincible

[evocation]

[As soon as Kyna is compelled to leave an offering at another person's grave, she knows exactly what's going on, and it's absolute bullshit. This is the same crap the gods in Hadriel always pulled, and if she's going to go through this here, too, she might really lose her shit. As soon as the vision ends, Kyna holes up in The Invincible's tavern, and though she grabs a drink, she isn't getting drunk. Yet, anyway.

There's no point in destroying her tombstone. She watches someone else do it and sees a replacement pop up not long after, and besides, she knows from experience that fighting these things doesn't actually work. There's nothing to do but ride it out and do her best to pretend it isn't happening and she isn't having her death thrown in her face.

Her mood is positively stormy, however, shoulders hunched and jaw set. She's gripping the glass like it's offended her personally, and if anyone gets close enough, she'll speak up in a clipped tone.]

Don't go anywhere near that fucking pop up cemetery.

Will Ingram | NPC | OTA (cw for gore)

[donttalktome]

grave.

[It's a tree. Yeah. At least it's a cool-looking tree? It's not immediately obvious that this isn't just some cemetery decoration, a nice bit of foliage to make things more pleasant, but if you look closely there is a tiny metal marker near the roots. It's fairly simple, just a rectangle with a name and a series of numbers:

Dr. William Halston Ingram
08862-27

Are those dates? Sure doesn't look like it. Weird. In any case, those are the only things on this particular plot.]

death vision.

[You knew this was going to happen.

You knew, but of course, no one fucking listens. A part of you hopes they all die. Another part of you is going to make sure of it.

For a moment you just lean against the wall of the corridor, trying to muster what little strength you have left. Every breath— coming quicker now as your system goes into shock— sends sharp jolts through your stomach. You're far too aware of the knife still stuck in your back (what lovely irony), horizontal, a surface wound you probably would've survived if not for the other ones. Whenever you move, you can feel the edge scrape against your ribs. The adrenaline is wearing off. You need to move. You push off from the wall, leaving a streak of bright red behind you.

You remember a time when you were much younger, staring down in fascination at your hand with bloody stumps. The pain was deep, down to your guts, less like you'd had two fingers cut off and more like your whole hand was being crushed in a hot vice.

This is a lot like that, except your guts are where it starts. You're no medic, but a general grasp of human anatomy tells you that you don't have much time left. Either you get help or you die, and that first one's a long shot. The thought crosses your mind, as you stumble toward the ship's bridge, that if that doctor finds you in time she'll have no choice but to save your life. And if she doesn't, you're dead anyway, so what do you care?

It takes a concentrated effort to get where you're going. Out of instinct, you hold one hand over the holes in your abdomen as if that's going to keep the blood inside. It isn't. You're leaving a trail everywhere you go, even if you can't see it because turning makes you dizzy. When you finally reach the door you're after, you worry for a second that the reader won't take your ID card because of how messy it is now. Thankfully the scanner can see through the gore.

You're trying to focus, but it's impossible not to look out through the bridge's massive windows into the void beyond. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you're sort of glad this view will be the last thing you see. This view will be the last thing you see. The thought hits you like a slap in the face and for a moment you just want to collapse and panic and let the weight of the situation crush you.

Thankfully, your spite is the greater force.

You don't bother with the pilot's chair— if you sit you'll just stop moving. Instead your hands go straight for the console, straight to the task at hand. Whoever did this to you made a huge fucking mistake. Maybe they didn't know you could do this. Serves them right, they'll never see it coming until it's too late. Your fingers move across the touchscreen with practiced muscle memory, and you try to ignore the smudges of red they trace.

You change the ship's course, tipping it down at a slight angle toward the planet it circles. It won't be quick, it'll take some time, but eventually this thing never meant to fly is going to wind up pulled out of orbit. And whoever killed you will likely be vaporized as it slams into the planet's surface. Of course, so will you, but you'll be long dead by then.

It's getting harder to concentrate, harder to remember what to do next. The connections you normally make so quickly seem to have gaps between them, lagging and stuttering like a broken machine. You realize, quite suddenly, that you're sitting on the floor. You don't remember when that happened. The pain is like a choking thing, making your breath shallower and shallower.

Fuck, you're really about to die out here. This is ridiculous. All the things you've survived, all the things you've accomplished, and it doesn't mean anything. Nothing means a damn thing. It's always been a fact of your life that the universe is a cold, vast, and uncaring lack of presence, but it was also home, and now it's turned on you. Your luck's run out. You guess it was bound to happen eventually.

Somehow you manage to finish the job, wresting administrative privileges from the ship's system and locking them behind a door only you can open. You don't really remember the process. You also don't remember when you laid down, but here you are.

And then here you aren't. You fade in and out as your frantic heartbeat starts to slow. At least the pain is fading, and at least you'll be unconscious before long. And at least you know that, with your last act, you took the bastard responsible with you.]

elsewhere.

[Will isn't participating in this... whatever this is. He sees the shrines in the firelight from the door of the Invincible, and he goes right back inside. There's plenty of food and coffee to keep him going until it's over.

On some level he knows what's going on. There are graves and half the town's walking around like they've got shellshock. Some sort of death-related trauma is occurring. But he wants nothing to do with it, and that's what he's determined to get.

If you want to talk to Will about the event, his grave, or his death, or anything else during this period of time, he can be found in the bar or his room. He won't be going out to the graveyard, and he won't be leaving any offerings of his own. He'll probably just be messing around on his tablet as per usual.]

elsewhere

[reigniter]

[After figuring out what the shrines do, Ignis decides to keep his distance from the bonfire. Even this far away, he could still feel the pull to return to the shrines and make offerings. But somehow, he resists. He's not sure if he can handle yet another time of being stabbed.

However, he still feels compelled to at least somehow express his gratitude to Will for all the apps he keeps making for them. Something more than a few simple words of 'thank you' over the text messages. So he brews some coffee, picks up what would've been offering for Will's shrine and heads down into the bar.

It's noisier than before- mostly because people are trying to escape the pull of the graveyard. He still finds Will quite easily; a corner table in the far back of the bar, hunched over the tablet and working. For a moment, Ignis sees a flash of himself in him, only hunched over a book with thick covers and over a thousand pages. Shaking away that thought, he approaches him, placing the cup of coffee in front of him, and small parchment bags with a few cookies on top of the lid.]

Don't worry, it's not bar's coffee.

Noob Saibot | Mortal Kombat | OTA

[saibot]

[Gravesite]

避寒


The appearance of the marker did not look like something that'd belong to the normally black-clad wraith. The grave site itself is simple, merely etched with his real name "Bi-Han" and the symbol for the Lin Kuei. Something he probably punched upon first discovering as his former clan was something he did not wish to be associated with ever again.

Death 1

[saibot]

[Death 1]

A warrior adorned in all yellow known as Scorpion pulled Bi-Han into a place full of fire and death -- The Netherrealm. It was a challenge he agreed to but the change in location was unexpected. Extreme temperatures were not kind to someone whose abilities revolved around ice. The two fought hard but Bi-Han was ultimately defeated though not killed. He laid on the ground, broken and worn from the fight as someone else decided to make an appearance.

The sorcerer known as Quan Chi. Someone who used the darkest of magic, a person Bi-Han knew of quite well.

He made images appear showing Sub-Zero (Bi-Han) as the one who murdered Scorpion's family, goading him to finish the job. To end the fight with death.

Bi-Han managed to pull himself to his feet and tried to protest, "That was not me."

But it was to no avail. Scorpion yelled in rage and pulled the mask covering his face revealing nothing but a skull. Flames erupted from his mouth scorching Bi-Han and setting him aflame until he was no more.

raylan givens ( open prompts within! )

[ultimatums]

» IN THE DEEP DARK HILLS OF EASTERN KENTUCKY ( DEATH )

[ultimatums]

[ you can watch here if you don't want to read my ramblings. the video includes all the content after 'so you go in', although obviously raylan is in worse shape because he was shot in the chest, not the hip. ]

The only thing you can think with any clarity is that you have to get inside. The rest of them don't matter, the rest of the world doesn't matter, you just have to get inside. It had been one shot, from inside the building, and then a tattering racket of them, Dickie in the car screaming, "Don't shoot!" and Doyle calling, "Ceasefire!"

Whatever they say between each other as Doyle approaches doesn't catch in your brain because you're down, on the ground in the dirt, wetness under the hand on your chest, and then your light is blocked. Doyle cocks his gun and you think This is it, the way you'd think about the weather. Dickie in the car screaming, unscathed again, he should have died, should have been shot, but if it wasn't you who'd killed him then what would be the point? Then he would have died for nothing.

He should have died for what he did to Helen.

Doyle's going to spray your brain matter everywhere. He says, "This bullet's been on its way for twenty years," and then there's a hole in his head, the sound of the shot echoing through the holler, and Dickie screaming again.

He should be dead for what he did to Helen.

The Marshals are coming, the Marshals are here, cars and sirens and Art's voice: "Raylan? You okay?"

There's sweat on your brow as you're standing up. Art's looking at you with concern and you nod, brush it off, shrug your jacket over the wetness that you won't look at, won't think about, not until you get inside. You tell him, "I've been better. It's good to see you, Art." And then, "We got at least two inside. One being Loretta McCready."

So you go in.

Loretta is near-hysterical inside, but the gun she's pointing at Mags is steady. She only starts to seem like a child again when she's crying, fourteen years old and she just misses her daddy. Shooting Mags won't bring him back. Shooting Dickie wouldn't bring Helen back. And Helen, well, she wouldn't have wanted that.

Helen, crucially, doesn't currently want anything.

There's some sense of relief when you get a hand on Loretta's shoulder, to steer her out of the room. When Tim has her gun and she's under Rachel's wing, and she's going, and she's gone, and you can feel the sweat dripping down your forehead and the blood coagulating in your chest, in your body. You tell her, as a courtesy, that her son is dead. Doyle, with a bullet in his head. That her other son is in custody. Dickie, in the car, screaming. Dickie, in the woods, screaming, your gun to his head, he'd been sobbing, "You don't have to do this, Raylan," and in the end you didn't, you didn't, but right now you know you won't leave this house, and maybe you should have.

Mags says, "You like a drink?"

"Apple pie?"

"Ease the pain."

So you sit down with Mags, and you get your drink. Whatever proof she makes her moonshine, it's enough to make you grit your teeth when you swallow, but it does ease the pain. There's no hesitation, no waiting for her to drink first – you're dying, now, you know you are and she knows you are, so what use would she have in poison?

You shake hands, end the feud. The way it should have ended, years ago, when you swung your bat at Dickie's knee and knocked his kneecap clean out. The way it should have ended, years ago. If it had been like that, if it had been different, if you hadn't done that to Dickie and extended an argument in its dying years when you were a kid, then maybe Helen—

Mags' hand around yours is tight, suddenly, a pincer grip. She says, "It was already in the glass. Not in the jar." All you can do is watch. Hold her hand. She has faith, somehow. She'll see her boys again, understand the mystery. You think about your momma, about Helen, about every person you've ever lost. You think about your father, still alive, goddamn him. Whatever's coming next, you won't see them again, you're sure of that. There's no place for you in eternity, and you were always going to die here anyway. You think about your momma. You think about Winona, the baby, your baby, the baby you'll never see. Mags breathes her last and slouches in her seat, and a bubble of blood pops at the corner of your mouth and dribbles over your lip, and you hope it's a girl, and then you're on the boat.