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

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.

[callada]

They're nice. You look like you're putting a lot of work into them.

[Join her he does, after a quick request for more coffee for the both of them to the spirits, who oblige quickly enough. He sets his lantern down beside his feet and pulls out one of the cigarettes Gene gave him, which is lit once he exposes the flame. Coffee and a cigarette, breakfast of choice.]

[voktys]

They are usually meant to be burned, and practice eases the making. ⟪ She shows him the pen she uses for the writing –– ⟫ Plus, these are much kinder on the hand than a quill.

⟪ A moment, she watches him take a drag of his cigarette. ⟫

Gene introduced me to these. At first, I thought they were only for death rites.

[callada]

[That is certainly an unusual pen. He's used to fountain pens and quills himself, but she's writing without an inkwell. How convenient.]

He showed you cigarettes? Yeah, they're for whenever you want. All the time. [At least in his case.]

Did you like it?

[voktys]

It was enjoyable. But I am given to smoke and fire.

⟪ He's been around her often enough by now to know she smells of i, even if her hair is still wet from a bath. ⟫

The things smoked in Essos would likely not allow one to last through a longer conversation without great embarrassment, so it is... interesting to observe it be such a habit for some here. They don't impact your consciousness?

[callada]

They do, but not in a bad way. They sort of... help me focus. They're relaxing. Do you want one?

[He only has a few left, but he's willing to share, and holds the pack out for her to draw one from it if she likes. They'd been gifted to him in the first place, after all, so it wouldn't be right to hoard them all to himself.]

[voktys]

Oh. ⟪ She knows them to be a rare resource, so she very much cherishes the offer. ⟫ Thank you.

⟪ Taking one, and then, she stares at the unlit tip of the cigarette for a moment, before blinking and shaking her head – opening the lid of her lantern instead to use her own flame instead. ⟫ It is a habit harder to break than I thought, I so relied on these abilities, especially on the Wall.

[callada]

What abilities are those?

[If he had to guess, the ability to light something on fire by staring at it, given what she'd just possibly attempted. That would have been handy, back in life. He's gone through more lighters than he can count, not only for cigarettes but cooking fires and the occasional necessary use in combat. And arson. But that was only a few places that deserved it, in his opinion.]

[voktys]

The power to make light and the power to cast shadow.

⟪ It's a vague answer, and she takes a drag of the cigarette like it's a thing she's done all her life. Truth is, she doesn't think of herself as being vague in this manner, the only times she does it on purpose is when she speaks of visions she does not see a need to share just yet. ⟫

These things exist in your world, no?

[callada]

[He'd argue that fire is more than just "light" but from what little he knows of her culture it does make a certain amount of sense to group them. So, cool. Light and the absence of it. That would be a pretty useful paramecia type.]

What, light and shadow? Or powers?

[voktys]

Powers.

⟪ Her language does not know it, but her voice says 'duh'. ⟫

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.

[preseance]

( he turns his hand over, clasps hers tightly. the heat of her skin is like a balm to someone who died in the cold. )

It ain't nothin'. Just a little under the weather.

( he ducks his head, an' then: )

I know we have different gods, but would you — ( in soft hesitation, ) pray with me?

[voktys]

⟪ in a way, he does tear her out of her waters, he gives her something to focus on, something that is not her own misery. a reminder, too: there is a present still, here, and they can't lose one another to visions and news from a home that is no longer their own.

with her free hand, she touches his cheek, a gentle stroke, meant to encourage and coax his head to raise again, and a more genuine smile. ⟫

Of course. In silence?

[preseance]

Please.

( it's agreement an' plea all at once, though he does duck his head against her hand. allowin' the comfort. but it's easy to fall prey to quietude, an' lose himself in communion. he doesn't focus so much on the words as the feelin' an' sentiment, an' knows that the lord will sort him out just the same.

when he's finished, he clears his throat faintly. he feels cold an' faintly feverish, there's an ache to his bones he mislikes by more than just a touch. but it, like everything else, can be put away. his fingers flex against hers, an' then, softly, )

You doin' all right?

[voktys]

⟪ melisandre does focus on the words –– and it's a strange thing, too. usually, she prays for guidance, for strength in the battle to defy the long night. she prays to see in her flames, and for azor ahai reborn, but it has been a long, long time since her prayers were... mortal.

they are mortal now. she prays for light in this world, she prays for gene to feel at ease, she prays for stannis in a way she hadn't before, and for others, too, the tenuous, fragile threads of friendship she's formed for the first time in centuries.

at the sound, her eyes focus on him, and she squeezes his hand in return. ⟫

No. ⟪ honesty, that, the kind she doesn't usually show. ⟫ I was told His Grace has been killed. Was told so by two others from my world, no less, so it strikes me as true. ⟪ her thumb traces along his knuckles. I saw you lay out an offering for yourself. Was there something you hoped to find?

[preseance]

( his grace — the king she spoke of? he's been buildin' her world piecemeal from shadow an' flame, little things she's told him without him pryin' at it too much. he ain't never been one to ask a life story plain, but he remembers details. when she presses the pad of her thumb to his knuckles, his fingers flex against hers. a comfort. )

M'sorry to hear about your loss, ma'am.

( that first. ain't nothin' else for it. her next question makes him fall silent a spell. not on account'a any awkwardness or the like, just. considering. )

I, ah. There was a fella there with me when I died. I'd been tendin' him. I thought... maybe if I paid more attention, I'd know whether or not he made it out all right.

[voktys]

⟪ there is a comfort to quiet touch, and she won't pull back from it until he does. in a way, this is something she's needed – quiet prayer, company. touch for the sake of it, not searching for other types of escapes. ⟫

It isn't my place to grieve him. ⟪ the unspoken 'but' is heavy in her voice. ⟫ 'tis a war we fought. There was always the risk of loss.

⟪ still, neither of them had treated parting at the wall as a final goodbye. not that it would have changed a thing. ⟫

You were not granted your answer? ⟪ it's almost superfluous, the question. he doesn't sound like he knows any more than he did before. ⟫

[preseance]

( no one here seems to have died peaceful or easy. maybe it's that he's had near acquaintance with death the whole of his life, but the ghosts born of pain an' hard ends are always different than the ones who go easy in their sleep. there's sufferin' stamped to the brow of near everyone he's met here, some crown of thorns fit to prick the skin.

war ain't touched all of them, but. it's touched enough. gene exhales, an' then of his own accord just sorta leans in against her, lettin' his head rest against hers, droppin' his shoulder in behind hers. he weren't really a tactile person before the war, but. sometimes, physical touch is the only thing what eases the soul. )

No. But I'm choosin' to have faith that my boys wouldn't'a let me die in vain.

( they would'a done their best to honour him, an' they knew enough of his character to know that would'a meant savin' mal. they'd have done it. his boys have been doin' the impossible since those machine gun nests at gela. )

[voktys]

⟪ melony had been starved for touch, but melisandre had lived her days and nights in asshai, where such things were treated with difference. she feels mortal when she wraps an arm around him, humanised in a way she could not be in life. there is nothing for a moment but god's grace and gene's scent and the beating of their hearts. she always smells of the smoke of her fire, she is still as feverish to the touch as she's ever been. ⟫

They will do for your memory what you did for them in life.

⟪ she sounds so convinced of it, too, but this is what brotherhood is, isn't it? she reckons on a battlefield, one is unlikely to find friends –– but it is hard to picture him not surrounded by some warmth like that. melisandre had to be indifferent to company (and failed). hard enough to know him dead, he doesn't need to have known the depths of loneliness, too. ⟫

[preseance]

( the conviction's a welcome one. he turns into her embrace, just restin' a time tucked beneath her arm. when was the last time anyone held him like this? it's usually him offerin' comfort, not the other way around. he feels eight years old again, his mama tendin' to a scraped knees or broken bones. she always punctuated her treatment with a ruffle to his hair an' a kiss to the temple, an' he remembers feelin' like he could stand anythin' so long as she was there.

this is a different sorta hurt. a sickness of the soul, everythin' alight with misery. he'd realized, talkin' with kyna that as peaceable as he is on the matter of death, it's the dyin' that sat ill with him. he didn't want to go. he wanted to see the end of the war an' his family again besides, an' much as he's found folk here he likes honest an' keenly he sure didn't want to spend out the time followin' death in this lightless realm neither. )

I know.

( his voice is a soft rasp. )

I was. ( a pause. he tries again, with a little less wobble to the words, ) I was gonna ask if you wanted to learn some'a the hymns from my world. You've got a lovely voice, reckon you'd do 'em justice.

[voktys]

⟪ here is something: she knows she is not meant to learn this. his god is similar to hers, or so she reckons from what they each have shared, but he is not hers, and this is close to a betrayal of each her oaths. but her god has forsaken her, and the man in her arms has died too early a death, and she is a priestess. her calling is not a matter of blind devotion, but of devotion of the seeing eye, and what she sees is that he... he needs something of home.

more so, he deserves it.

the least she can do is breathe life into something that might offer him some semblance of a comfort. so for once, she chooses to do what she wants to do: ⟫

I would love to learn them from you. ⟪ she pulls back a little, just enough to look him in the eye, and she brushes her thumb against his cheek. ⟫ It has been long since I learned new ones, and we should all have a little of our faith here.