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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Comments

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?

tavern

[callada]

[It's early. He was up late. Rosinante has trouble sleeping even on good days but it feels like the latest turn of events has made it even more difficult. Rather than try to get a few more hours, he lumbers out of bed, comes down for coffee and sees Melisandre at work.]

What's all this?

[voktys]

⟪ Her lantern is dimmer than it was when they had last seen each other –– soon, she must sleep, or else. It's not just sleep she is troubled with, it has been so long since she regularly had to eat that she passes on days without it.

At least, she drinks, having found a love for coffee quickly enough. ⟫

Offerings to be. ⟪ She makes room for him, in case he wishes to join her, and her smile is more friendly than cryptic for a change. ⟫ It would be unwise to waste food, I think, but we have paper aplenty.

church;

[preseance]

( he's been in an' outta churches a few times over the last few years, but mass is a thing he's set aside in the war, an' churches are mostly doubling now as hospitals anyhow. but he's there, an' tryin' to find solace in the whole of the thing. he has faith that prayer will reach the lord beyond death.

he takes a quiet seat beside melisandre, worn to exhaustion by the day's events an' his own nicotine withdrawal. it's probably an obvious sign of his distress that the only greeting she gets is a nod. then, soft, )

D'you happen know any hymns, ma'am?

( his voice has somethin' of a rasp to it. just one more symptom of how long he's been now without a cigarette. )

[voktys]

⟪ his voice rips her out of the darkness, the familiar tune to it, the strange drawling melody he speaks in. the breath she draws is shaken, but she turns to face him, aiming for her usual mild, smiling calm. it won't quite come to her, right now. ⟫

There are no hymns sung in Asshai. ⟪ he sounds ill, taken with something, and she extends a hand to touch onto his own. ⟫ I know prayer songs, though.

⟪ bound to ask: ⟫ What is troubling you? You do not sound well.

storytelling & bonfire comforts

[voktys]

( ➻ rest your heart )

⟪ While she had spent most of her time in the church during the first ten days, now that the cemetery is gracing this land with its presence, she seems once again drawn to the bonfire like a moth to flame. Her knees are pulled to her chest, she sits as close to the flame as she can without setting fire to herself, and her cheeks are pink with the heat of it. In a way, it makes her look more alive – the unnatural pallor is gone, if only for as long as she stays this close to it.⟫

Scripture is full of stories like these.

⟪ Even though her eyes are still glazed over, even though the fire is mirroring itself in them, she is addressing you. The lantern by her side is dimmer than it should be, a tribute to her habits, but her voice is the same as ever – warm, with the lilt of her accent and a hint of secrecy, even as she speaks frankly.⟫

It does not feel as if we are touching faith, though.

[sunborne]

[ sleep also rests heavy on daylight's brow, having his own fair share of trouble when it comes to sleeping since the cemetery's arrival. mostly because his brain has been chewing on thoughts and memories and feelings that are both his own and not his own. they mixed together, memories and desires, stirring dull roots and synapses with sparks and seconds that were not his own but still his own.

if that last sentence sounded like gibberish, that's basically how daylight feels these days as he no simply tries to get his bearings and help others. neither task is an easy one. especially if the one you want to help is, in a way, part of the reason why he's trying to get said bearings back together. ]

...

[ daylight doesn't answer at first. he, instead, focuses on sitting crosslegged next to melisandre, his winglets fluttering behind him in a clear sign of concern for her. part a true desire to rest, feeling exhausted and tired to his struts. part of a stalling tactic, needing more time to think and to compose himself so he doesn't flinch or pull away from her during talks.

after a few minutes of thoughtful staring into the bonfire, trying to gather his thoughts and himself together, daylight looks at her and asks her something: a question born thanks to her comments: ]

Do you want to trade back-and-forth some stories, then?

[voktys]

⟪ she is old enough to have learned many a lesson in patience, and while everything about daylight is still strange to her –– no less so now that she has seen his thoughts and felt his feelings –– there is no fear in her anymore, not the way there had been briefly during their first meeting.

in a way, he reminds her of devan, the squire she'd tried to protect. granted, he was much taller, but they were similar enough in spirit. ⟫

I would enjoy it, I think, but ––

⟪ first things first. ⟫

How are you? ⟪ a glance in the general direction of the graveyard. ⟫ 'tis not an easy situation we have found ourselves in, I worry you may overstrain yourself.

death

[voktys]

( ➻ smoke to the skies )

⟪ Somewhere in the shadows, there is a small shrine. For anyone who has traversed the world and seen Essos, the red stone will be familiar as the same kind the Temples is build of –– and even without such knowledge, it’s still quickly evident whose gravesite this is. Is anyone else so dedicated to the colour? Still, it isn’t even knee height, and kept simple, with a plate for a name and a date, and a small hole for a stick of incense, as well as a place for a candle.

Melisandre of Asshai
114 BC - 300 AC
This is what anyone who leaves an offering will experience:⟫

She longs to see the sunrise. It is the only need she seems to feel, and it is near overpowering. The night had plagued her as it often does, its darkness whispering into her ear, the woman who screams for Melony, the man who calls her, cruelly, Lot Seven. The visions she is pondering – the boy with the wolf’s head, the agent of the Other, a name that sends a cold chill through her bones, and then the girl she will tell Jon Snow of, the one she thinks may be his sister.

But now, she craves light, true light, and it’s not what she says, of course, there is no need to admit to such a thing. Devan had asked if she wished to eat, she had said ‘yes’, even though she has no need, and by the time she’s left her room, slipped out without her guards for once, she’s already forgotten about the feigned hunger. We are not in Castle Black, now, we are atop the Wall, a hundred feet high in the air, and the snow is dancing like flakes of ash around her.

This may strike some as odd: her dress is thin, made for a warmer climate, and the scarf she merely carries around her waist. In some ways, she is aware of the cold, but she does not truly feel it – she feels warm, held by her god. Around her, the flakes seem to vanish, she is too warm to see them last. Still, dawn won’t quite come.

She thinks of the King, too – Stannis, she calls him in her mind, and her champion, and Azor Ahai reborn, and His Grace, wishes she’d seen him in the flame, recalls how he walked this part of the Wall with her, night after night, no guards, her waiting for the first sign of dawn that would allow her to rest, him not fighting a battle elsewhere.

Exhaustion is there, too, she’s not slept in a week, and her eyes almost fall close where she stands.

Then, the peace ends, too fast to register, even for her. Her torch goes first, and dawn has not yet broken, there is no light, and the disorientation gets her as quickly as the daggers do – darkness is what she has feared since she was a slave girl at the Temple, since before that, even, and she knows her attackers fear her. It makes the stabbing all the more brutal. Pain is everywhere – in her head, at her throat, exploding like the fire around her, fire she’d cast herself. Blood, too, she can feel it now, and she need no vision to know the daggers had done all the damage they’d needed to do. It’d come down on her, again and again, the work of the desperate.

Fire can’t save her. She’s fallen, red spreads around her, there’s blood in her mouth, too much to let prayer pass. There’d been no last word, only screaming that she herself hasn’t registered in the moment. Too fast to see, too fast to be saved, and still, there is no dawn. This is the last thing she thinks, as she feels cold for the first time in so, so many years: if only she could see the sun.

⟪ She won’t mind the intrusion as much, and she will treasure her offerings – gifts are a rarity to someone like her, and the idea that someone would spend a moment’s thought on her as a person means much.⟫

[spitefullight]

[ Like many of the graves, this one calls to him and unlike the first few where he had no true offerings at the time, he has some prepared here. A jar filled with water he had created, some unlit candles and a small drawing of a sun. In such a dark place at least a drawing was nice? He had at least prepared himself for an onslaught of visions, but this woman's?

It's almost too much. Dying in the dark and wanting to see the sun? Then ending up here? He can only fathom that this place must be their own personal hell. When the vision finally ends, a hand rests atop the shrine, a frown pulling at his lips. ]

I'm sorry you didn't get to see the sun....

[reigniter]

[Ignis' offering wasn't much- a couple of cookies wrapped in parchment paper and tied with a string. He was at a loss on what he could give as the offering so he settled on things he does the best- the blackberry cookies should be tasty.

What he didn't expect was the vision of her death. It felt- like prying. Into something that was more than just personal. The longing for the sun, the devotion- the vision of it all very effectively seeps the emotion right through. And now, trapped here, where there was no Sun either.

The stabbing hurt- it was in the vital point, Ignis felt it. She didn't seem to suffer for long, though, and Ignis is glad for it. He wished she wasn't stabbed at all.

He remains standing there, at her shrine, even as the vision ends, to pay proper respect.]

( reaction only. )

[sunborne]

[ the last thought is what sticks to daylight the most when he's released from the experience.

of course, daylight is panting, taking greedy gulps of air through his whirring vents. of course, daylight is frantically patting down his throat, his face to make sure they're not slick or torn apart. of course, daylight is looking around him, half expecting daggers, gleaming and terrible, to be waiting right beside him to continue what they were doing in that past event. but, all the same, he can't shake off the last echoes that melisandre thought before she slipped away, fell into the cold.

something about that refuses to leave him be even as he stands up from where he's kneeling, his expression sorrowful and apologetic. there's something about melisandre that speaks of an old, old soul. the way she speaks. the way she carries herself. the thoughts he heard and the emotions he felt only confirms it. he may not understand some terms or events due to his lack of knowledge of her world, but he wants to think he has chance of having a better understanding of ehr now.

out of impulse, with the taste of blood still lingering in his mouth, he makes a second offering that day. it's one that can't be passed on to her in a normal sense but, all the same, he presents it as a gift and a sign of respect that he has for her. the second offering he makes?

it's a song. daylight leaves behind a song, one that happens to be from his mother's planet. he hums it, having forgotten half the lyrics since it's been so long since he heard anyone sing it, but he thinks the wistfulness in its melody, the lyrics speaking of the desire to see light for the night is dark and the stars are not enough is- is appropriate. (yeah. let's go with that.)

he leaves the grave soon after, not lingering a second longer. all that's left that could hint to his presence are the faint footprints of his pedes on the ground. that and the paper flower that he had made by himself, the petals are red as blood, still as the graves themselves. ]

Re: death

[originallutece]

[It's odd, isn't it? It's a completely different death than her own, and still Rosalind feels similarities. Not with execution, not the searing heat of daggers and the rawness in her throat from screaming, no, but the feeling. The inherent knowledge of what's happening even as it happens; the way she has it all at her fingertips, knowing who and where and why and how, and yet how it doesn't help, not a bit.

She's shaky after each death, of course. It's no small thing, experiencing those visions. But perhaps there's something extra to the way she stares wide-eyed at her grave. Her offering-- a bit of scrap metal curved and bent in the shape of a bird-- is her focal point, and she stares at it for an awfully long time.

Well.

She finds Melisandre later on, near the bonfire. She takes a seat near her, her mouth tight and thin.]

. . . what were those voices? Lot seven, Melony . . . those weren't from around you.

[Also, hi, she saw her death.]

[song_of_ice]

[They had been avoiding each other since they arrived. He knew of her presence but hadn't sought her out, uncertain what they would even say to each other (as the last time he saw her, he banished her from the North). She hadn't exactly looked for him either, but given what he knew, he assumed it was for her own protection or uneasiness about him.

Watching her death in his memory, experiencing what she did though, it only left him baffled and speechless. None of that was right or fell into line with what he knew. They had left Castle Black together, she knew of Stannis' death and had brought Jon back. Yet what he saw before him was an assassin in the night, snuffing her out before she can reach the Wall. It was no different than his first, blades in the darkness.

His eyes found hers, clear confusion on his expression.]

I don't understand...

⤞ death

[facelessgirl]

[ Arya only lays an offering on the grave because she knows what to expect. She did it accidentally the first time with Jon or she never would have done so on purpose. She's seen a few since them, some sad, some confusing, but she's been seeking Melisandre's out to satisfy what she must know. It isn't difficult to find, and the name is clear enough. Arya marvels at the age a moment before leaning down, taking one knee and offering a spring of some plant she found growing at the edge of the wood.

When she blinks awake again, it's with some strange sense of discovery. The Wall. She has seen it for the first time through the red witch's eyes, and it was truly a sight to behold. And...

And she told the truth. Arya had thought herself somewhat sure, she trusts her skills with others but the witch has always been mysterious. But it was as she said, and Arya has no reason to doubt her now. And still...

When she finds her, Arya approaches on silent feet. They've spoken once through their devices after their first meeting, a strange experience for Arya and not one she sees herself getting used to quickly. She stands utterly still and silent and waits for Melisandre to notice her. When she does, Arya levels cool grey Stark eyes on her. ]

Jon was a far better king than Stannis could have ever hoped to be anyway. [ She doesn't exactly mean it unkindly, surprising even herself with the lack of acidity in her tone. The height difference between them is striking, and Arya must look up at Melisandre to speak to her. ] I'm... forever thankful for what you did for him. The you that... that lived beyond the Wall. [ Grateful the words might be, but there is a good deal of tension in her tone. ]

wildcard

[voktys]

( ➻ surprise me )

⟪ oh boy, what a ride! if there’s anything else you want (i’d be happy to draft up a specific starter, too!) please message me on discord at dracula#1035 or on plurk at nehelenia. i'm so excited about this event, i mean. look at how many things are already going wrong. ⟫

Forgetting Westeros

[song_of_ice]

[The news doesn't settle in his mind and doesn't stay quiet. The truth about his parentage was breathing down his neck, even as he tried to rest, to sleep and block away the glaring face of the lie. The man he was, the image of his father he thought he was emulating, all of it was shattered under the frantic beating of his heart. More and more, it seeped into his consciousness, suffocating any chance he might have of peace.

It was a feeling at least, but not the kind he wanted. Set next to his panic and fear of the emptiness, it only inflamed his anxiety. He didn't want to pace during the night or disturb Arya with this. Somehow, bringing all of this to her and unburdening his confusion, fear and rage, it didn't seem right. The first time he could think of that happening. She shared so much of him, but he couldn't bring this to her, not yet.

There was only one other figure he could think of and somehow her face was the only one he wanted to see. He couldn't say when he started moving to her chapel, but the moment he saw her red hair, he could breathe again. Would she understand? Would it matter very much to her as it would anyone else in his family? He didn't know, he only knew that he would feel something and forget everything else here.]

What else did your fires tell you? Did your god show you that my life was a lie?

offerings –

[voktys]

( ➻ the drop box )

⟪ if you want your character to see mel's death, but don't necessarily want a thread to do with it (since mel's not actively monitoring her shrine), just leave a note here saying what kind of offering your character left! thank u! c: ⟫

[fogey]

[ five leaves a single, white candlestick. ]

[song_of_ice]

Jon leaves Mel a small candle, a flame carved into the wax.

[nonscriptum]

[ Tucked between the headstone and the earth beside it is a small piece of paper, folded in half. On the other side is a small drawing of a four-pointed star - the compass rose. ]

[policier]

( Javert leaves a single coin on her shrine. )

[darkeyed]

_{[Congrats! Melisandre has acquired: a blood offering to the best age old priestess in town. ｡^‿^｡]}

( offering only )

[jigsawn]

( billy leaves a medium-sized stone for her. )