In the Night Moderators (
inthenightmods) wrote in
logsinthenight2019-07-12 01:00 pm
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
Entry tags:
- !event,
- billy russo (laws),
- coraline li (jejune),
- daylight vis lornlit (melly),
- dick grayson (jin),
- hanzo hasashi (abel),
- irwin wade (lauren),
- javert (rachel),
- jo harvelle (dee),
- jon snow (rachel),
- kuai liang (sydney),
- m.k. (shira),
- melisandre (mina),
- nathan drake (alex),
- number five (z),
- peter parker (laura),
- rafe adler (sammo),
- raylan givens (bobby),
- riku (dubsey),
- rosinante donquixote (lauren),
- shadow moon (kas),
- will ingram (leu),
- zihuan cao pi (gemini)
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.
QUICKNAV | |||
comms | | | network • logs • memes • ooc | |
pages | | | rules • faq • taken • mod contact • player contact • calendar • setting • exploration • item requests • full nav |
Rosinante Donquixote | Open prompts within
Death
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.]
no subject
At least, that was his train of thought prior to placing the scrap of paper with a line of poetry scribble in Chinese. He's never felt the impact of bullets into flesh before, just a few pings off his armor, but the sense of bleeding out in the snow...how very real. The sense of desperation, the quietly simmering feeling of love for someone who means something, even more real. So when he snaps out of it, his flippant decision becomes firmly cemented into something he needs to take seriously. For now, though, he simply remains there in the glade, thinking, while crouched before the cross. When Rosinante comes around, he'll still be there, pencil and paper in one hand, presently blank while he grapples to shape his thoughts into ideograms that would tumble together into perfect poetry.
no subject
He grows less annoyed when he approaches closer and the lamplight helps illuminate the previously backlit Cao Pi. He has yet to find the other man's headstone, but he had intended to visit it himself, so fair is fair. He'd been a reliable traveling companion, sharp and thoughtful. It must end up being reflected in some similar tendencies when it comes to gathering information.
"Have you already looked?" he asks, tone neutral, and he stops while his lantern swings gently with the remnants of motion from where it hangs atop a branch he'd collected on their walk. The walking stick doesn't actually help him much, but it's nicer than just carrying the light manually.
no subject
He itches to ask about the kid in the chest, the family member (he noted the resemblance if nothing else) and the conflict, but some of it is probably still too personal to ask after. He inclines his head slightly, the vaguest of bows. "Sacrifice is the noblest of deaths, they say," he hints, wondering if he should be more direct or just leave it be.
no subject
"Thank you," he manages. Were it many of the other people here, he might retort back at them. Do they say that? Who is they? But even though their journey together was short, he and Cao Pi had to rely on each other, and he's gained some respect for the man, even if he's still definitely sort of arrogant. Being called noble is an honest compliment from him, probably.
But now, as with Kuai, it feels awkward to say much else. This isn't the sort of conversation he's well-equipped to handle. "You were... writing something?" he tries.
no subject
You know, if you can read Chinese, that is.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
( reaction only. )
anxiety ripples through daylight, the boy ready to panic, but his own feelings are swept away as the experience fully settled over him. reliving the death of someone else is always a different feeling, judging by who it is. for rosinante, it feels like being pulled under a tide. getting swept away in something grand and sweeping. like a force of nature whose reckoning has finally come.
so it isn't long before daylight's feelings of anxiety and fear it's replaced by something he would best describe as defiance. defiance against doflamingo and for what he stood for. defiance against what was literally being aimed down his face. defiance against death itself as rosinante forces himself to live just a little bit longer, just so law could get out, get away, get a chance to be free. that feeling, amongst all the others, burns the brightest for day.
it isn't long before he's pulled beneath the depths as he reaches the terrifying end of the experience. the one where the consciousness fades and the limbs cool and, yet, it isn't terrifying? something about the focus of someone else's future, the knowledge that, one day, they (law) will think of them again is enough. it helps ease the transition of a fading consciousness, cooling limbs, the snow no longer bothering him and-
by the end of the experience, as he reels back from the grave and lands on his butt with a solid thump!, daylight is reminded of the fact he can't cry. his optics burn, his core aches, and, all the same, his face remains dry.
he's not sure if that's a bad thing or not. ]
(( offering only ))
no subject
Not that Five precisely sought out Rosinante's grave because he found the man at his own -- not that he precisely sought it out at all -- but when he lays a candle at the stone there's no guilt in it.
Death is never easy to watch, whether or not it's been perpetrated by his own hands; none of the scenes he's seen here have been, either, and neither is Rosinante's. He wasn't sure what he was expecting, exactly, but it wasn't this. Which is why he's still kneeling when the memory completes, and why he doesn't notice footsteps behind him.
no subject
He claps his other hand to his chest as he bends down, though, cancelling the silence so he can speak. "That's enough," he grumbles, hoping to tear Five out of the vision without him being able to see all of it. The more he keeps to himself, the better.
no subject
Startling an assassin isn't a great choice, but luckily Five's immediate reaction is to teleport away. He reappears in a ripple in reality nearby, scowling fiercely.
"Don't touch me."
no subject
Well-used to strangeness already, and finding each day here to be stranger than the last, his surprise only lasts a second before he focuses quickly on where Five has moved himself to.
"You're the one intruding. You don't have any room to talk."
no subject
It's not quite a you started it, but. The same in essence.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
1. In Memoriam: at the grave
Rosinante Donquixote
b. July 15, 1485
May the ocean always guide him.
For a while, he sits by it in contemplation. It's horrifying that it's here, it doesn't belong here and doesn't make sense - but touch confirms it's not an illusion. Is this what Sengoku had made for him? Must be. It's nothing special. Just another Marine grave.
Should anyone bring an offering while he's there, he'll turn to face them. No makeup today other than lipstick, a sort of bare minimum to look like he's made an effort. "Why do you want to see this?" he'll ask, sounding more defeated as the days go by.
2. Elsewhere/wildcard
Of course, after a few hours of pouring booze into cups for the people he wants to snoop on, he'll retreat to the bar to get plastered because he's out of cigarettes and life sucks big time. Shittiest birthday ever. Find him humming some foreign song to himself while he pokes at his tablet and downs a few too many drinks. Dodge a glass he accidentally knocks off the table and straight at your feet with a swing of an arm. "Sorry," he might say. Sounds a bit slurred. Take him up to his room so he can sleep it off.
As always, feel free to wildcard.
Lakeshore
Maybe someone had made it when they weren't sure if death was permanent. That was considerate of them, to honor him in that way. He should leave something to help mark it. Incense and food were traditional but he doesn't have the former and wasting the later seemed unwise when he's not sure if the stores will be restocked. There's candles around the makeshift graveyard, and that will have to do.
Kneeling next to the marker he pulls out his tablet and opens it, not to use it, but for the paper he'd been storing safely within. He'd been using it to make notes when he didn't want to use the tablet, and he selects an unused piece and folds it into the shape of a boat. The boat goes near the marker, the candle goes in the boat.
And Kuai is violently thrown into seeing Rosinante's death.
He doesn't have the context, he doesn't know who those people are, or what's happening in the box that's silently thudding behind him. But he comes out of it reeling, on his hands and knees and gasping for air. He clenches his eyes shut, the sudden onslaught of emotions threatening to overtake him and he can feel his eyes scratchy behind his eyelids.
What? What was that? Was that what happened before Rosinante arrived here? He shouldn't know that. He shouldn't be made aware of personal details like Rosinante's thoughts as he died to protect someone. It feels like an invasion of privacy and he at once wants to apologize to the man and also never speak of it again.
He settles for leaving and walking along the shoreline to collect his thoughts, running into the one person he doesn't want to see right now. He pauses, awkwardly looking away before approaching. His formal politeness has no way to properly formulate an apology for witnessing someone else's death from inside their body and knowing their thoughts while it happened.
"I trust you've seen the graveyard that's appeared in town?" He sounds hopeful, maybe if Rosinante has seen it, he won't have to explain anything.
no subject
"I have," he replies. "Why?"
His own "grave", whatever that marker really is, isn't far away. If it weren't so dark, it could probably be seen from here. Hm.
no subject
"I saw yours." He looks away, intensely upset about all this but hiding it behind his frozen mask of monotone speaking, "I'm sorry."
Sorry for what? Seeing it? That he died? He tries again, "I didn't know what would happen."
no subject
But that knowledge doesn't keep him from deflating slightly, as he lets out a soft sigh and closes his hand around the stones in his palm, then pockets them.
"Everyone's here for the same sort of reason. You don't need to apologize." Except that he does, and he understands. He may end up doing the same when he peers in on the final moments of a few here who went in particularly difficult ways.
Now what, though? Kuai knows more than he had wanted anyone to, and others may learn as well. He's not counting on the modest grave to be completely overlooked by everyone, as nice as that would be.
no subject
"What sort of magic is making this happen? And for what purpose?" He doesn't expect answers, more voicing his frustration that this should be occurring at all.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
#2 | cw vomit
Wade heaves a sigh and makes his way back to the Invincible after he grinds out the end of his last cigarette for the time being, acutely aware of the nausea and racing heart he'd inflicted upon himself by adding one final link to the chain with every step he takes. Last he checked, Rosinante and Mary are out somewhere, which is preferable - he'd like some time alone to process this; surely enough, there's nobody in the room to hear him cough and subsequently clear his throat.
It's the force of that cough that brings on a wave of nausea a lot more imminent than the vague sensation he was feeling on his way up the the grungy stairs. He has enough time to step into the bathroom without closing the door behind himself and kneel in front of the toilet, resting his forearm on the edge of the seat and his head on his forehead. Wade's not sure how long he spends like that, eyes closed, heart beating sickeningly fast behind his sternum and head throbbing. His thoughts inevitably move to earlier events of the day - seeing Jesse sitting beside strewn offerings and a broken grave marker, staring down at a candle on his own.
Oh, God, they're really dead. Wade retches. The apartment's front door opens. ]
no subject
This has been the week from hell and he's wondering if it will ever stop. The graves appeared out of thin air and haven't gone anywhere and he's seriously considering just moving to the woods and becoming some kind of hermit so he doesn't have to deal with them ever again. If the town is going to be a graveyard, he doesn't want to live in it.
It takes him a second to register that he's not alone - the lantern light and the sound and stench tip him off once they make it to his senses through the haze brought on by alcohol and lack of cigarettes. Not his finest combination. He leaves his lantern in the middle of the room and pushes himself upright, then staggers over to investigate.
Shit, man.]
Wade. You okay? What's going on?
no subject
I've been better. Smoked too much at once considering I've barely had anything over the past few days. [ He doesn't mention the emotional aspect of it, that he's alone and dead and very much not okay. Rosinante can probably infer that much. ]
no subject
[It's all right if it's not the full truth. Everyone's in a bad state right now. They're all struggling with this - except for a rare few, whose apparent apathy is as much a warning sign as anything else could be.
Never the best with stable footing, nevertheless he manages to make his way over to the kitchenette in the corner with a hand against the wall to guide him, and gets a glass of water to bring over to Wade.]
Here. This'll help.
[He's in no state to try and do anything more involved, like making soup or tea or whatever else you're supposed to do for someone with a stomach in a bad way, but at the very least it'll help get the taste out of his mouth.]
You should probably come lie down, too. Want a hand?
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)