logsinthenight | EVENT LOG: GRAVES

EVENT LOG: GRAVES

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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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. ]

♫ Dear God - Lawless

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 ]

▶ 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. )

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.]

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?"

[ 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. ]

[ 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! ]

[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.]

[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.]

[Prompts to be posted below.]

[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.]

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.]

[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.

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