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logsinthenight2019-07-12 01:00 pm
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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.
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ambrose spellman ( chilling adventures of sabrina ) ota
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
graveside stuff;
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.
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( not that his family would but it's an easy, light thing to say instead of thinking too much on what might have been going through his family's minds when they had to put this together. )
Little jarring to see this, though. I could have done without.
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he just nods a little, understandin'. )
Reckon most folk haven't enjoyed this little to-do.
( a slosh of the flask, just to get the man's attention. could be he's too distracted by the grave to pay it much mind. )
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Getting slapped in the face with one's mortality especially here is kind of like rubbing your face in it, isn't it? We know we're gone so why this?
( what the hell's the point? )
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Some manner of test, maybe. Or some way we're supposed to atone.
no subject
( he repeats the word and then shakes his head. )
I won't be doing that. And you? Are you going to atone? Spending time by yourself regretting all the bad things you might have done in your life?
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Weren't my intention, no. Ain't much I regret about my life anyhow.
( he ain't free of sin, hardly that. but he ain't never been a shade in doubt of knowin' he's a good man, neither. that ain't somethin' this place can take from him. )
no subject
( would he have possibly made some different choices? he can't say but he doesn't regret the trajectory of his life. )
So, if I have to atone before I leave this place, I suppose I am never leaving this place.
no subject
Well, you got that buddin' singin' career to think on, don't you? Besides, bein' here ain't so bad as all that.
( he's on the fence about whether or not it's better or worse than bein' a ghost. but at least they can touch others. talk to them. have somethin' very much like life. his was different, because he could'a gone on home an' talked to his pa an' his brothers an' he mourns that opportunity. but nobody else but him would have that, wouldn't they? so then, this is the better choice by far. )
grave
Is it time travel again, like Five? Or something else?
He places a little glass jar at the base of the stone - for the shop had run out of cups, or he just hadn't seen them - and pours a splash of whiskey into it. Immediately, he's pulled into the vision and finds by the end that he's reeling from that sensation of sheer horror and desperation. Imprisonment is one thing, but torture? And so much blood, rather like how he himself had gone. He knows the feeling of shock better than he'd like to now and recognizes it here, too. Knows also the pain that is the inability to say goodbye; to die away from those you cared about most while they could do nothing to help.
It's hard stuff to swallow, but he does his best as he stands to move on. Like all the rest, there's little to be done in this immediate moment. They've all suffered so much.]
no subject
( he doesn't, not really, but ambrose has seen where he's just been standing and, after experiencing similar things at other graves, he knows what rosinante's probably seen. )
Need a drink?
no subject
I've just left you one, actually. [And he swishes the half-empty whiskey bottle to indicate he's got some.] Though I wouldn't mind splitting the rest of this, if you like.
no subject
( especially with the reminder of the nature of his death staring him in the face. witch hunters were the worst. angelic witch hunters? they were something you didn't want to ever face twice. )
I would like. ( no need to be sober right now. ) You saw, then?
no subject
[He'll admit it, but he sounds slightly regretful. It was his intent to look, but each death is hard to experience. Even the quickest, least painful ones leave him feeling a little hollow. Perhaps he won't end up visiting all of the ones he'd intended to see because of how exhausting they are.]
It's... strange, how they keep drawing me in even if I would rather walk away. Let's find somewhere to sit that isn't surrounded by these markers.
no subject
( he's not angry about it. would he have rather no one see what happened? sure, but he also knows that it saves him the trouble of explaining that part, at least. )
How many have you seen?
no subject
[Or like half of them at least. He hasn't kept count anyway, so he couldn't give a real number even if he wanted to.
For now, he sticks the bottle of whiskey back into one of the inner pockets of his coat and picks a direction to walk. He's spent too much time in the bar lately and it's too easy for people to just run across them there and try to join in and chat. He's not into that right now. But the riverbank shouldn't be far, and it's pleasant enough. He manages to get there without a stumble, which is lucky, and has a seat. The staff he carries his lantern on is laid down beside him with the lantern on flat ground - no toppling it, he's learned from that one - and he retrieves the bottle of whiskey and sets it out as well, then rummages in the bag slung around his shoulders for another one of those cups that's clinking around in there. He's glad he grabbed a few, though he's almost out. They've made for nice offerings, he hopes. This one he'll use for now - and he pours himself a plenty generous portion and leaves the remaining half in the bottle for Ambrose.]
Those people in your, uh, vision. You were calling them "witch hunters". What does that mean in your world?
no subject
( don't worry, he's going to explain. )
They hunt people like me. Witches, warlocks, whatever the word. They think us an abomination and thus, they think it their mission to hunt us down and kill us. The witch hunters that you saw, they were...particularly vicious.
( because they were jackass angels. )
no subject
[It would be nice if he was surprised by any of this, but he's just not. Even if Ambrose had used his magic in irresponsible ways (for being called a witch or warlock hardly seems like a positive thing), he should have been captured, retained, questioned. Not just killed outright by a mob of gangsters claiming themselves to be some kind of authority. Maybe he's misreading the situation entirely, projecting his own experiences on it, and he doesn't know enough context anyway, but none of it feels right.]
no subject
( that was all smoke and mirrors anyway. flash and falsehoods. not what he did at all. )
So yes, it's witches and warlocks, mostly. People like me who are born with the ability, I suppose.
no subject
The only reason it matters, of course, is that if witches and warlocks are specifically people who use dark powers intended to harm others, there might be room to consider that he deserved it.]
Earlier, you told me you and your people did their best to hide the use of magic from nonmagical people. How did these witch hunters discover you, then?
no subject
( and the christian god was a vengeful one when he wanted to be. )
Most mortal witch hunters would have to do their due diligence and make some educated guesses. Angelic witch hunters knew exactly where to go and who to target.
no subject
So for being born with magic, you are inherently an enemy of God?
[If the man hadn't just died, if they weren't all so full of sorrow, he might smile. Different worlds, different meanings, but there's a note of appreciation in his voice all the same.]
no subject
( and though he thinks the reason why might be figured out without elaboration, he thinks it might need to be said anyway. he doesn't know what the reaction will be but he's not ashamed of who he is. )
God doesn't tend to like my kind because of where I came from and who I tend to follow...in a loose sense of the word.
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So all of that is real, where you're from. Truly real, in a way you could see and touch, and not just old stories. Am I understanding right? Gods, and devils, and angels.
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