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

nathan drake ♦ open prompts within

[nonscriptum]

hodie mecvm eris in paradiso ♦ death

[nonscriptum]

[ The air is hot and sticky, a humidity thick with the scent of lush jungle and plant life, sweat beading down the back of his neck as birds call far behind them, below them. At the edge of a cliff and a disadvantage Nate (for once) knows better than to push his luck, doing his best to defuse the volatility.

He thought he'd talked them down.

Foolishly, perhaps, but negotiations have never been Nate's strong suit and the best he is capable of doing is providing a genuine, honest case for their lives - for Sam's life. More than anything he wants this over with, wants to loosen the noose around his brother's neck and pay his debt for him after everything Sam suffered in prison. Fifteen years behind bars, and God, Nate owes him. He owes him everything.

Fifteen years since he's seen Rafe Adler in person, and it has to be at gunpoint. The mercenaries behind him are vigilant, their leader - Nadine, and Christ she can throw a punch - impassive and tense, waiting. Impatient. Nate knows he and Sam have been a thorn in their collective sides since the grift at the auction and she would like nothing better than to throw them off of the nearest outcrop, but Rafe is wallowing in their helplessness and Nate knows it's deserved.

Sam interrupts him, tries to stop him from mentioning the debt, the prison break, the Butcher of Panama and his threat should Samuel Drake not retrieve the treasure in return for his liberty, and Rafe looks at him as though he's suddenly grown two heads. ]

What the Hell are you talking about, Nate? Hector Alcázar died in a shoot-out in Argentina like six months ago. I'm the one who got Samuel out.

[ It hits him slowly, confusion first. Looking to Sam while Sam refuses to look at him, and a broad smile stretches across Rafe's face as he realizes something that Nate doesn't - not yet. His tone shifts for the conversational and the words roll in ceaselessly as Nate stares, struck dumb. Numbed to his core he listens in stunned silence as what he knows is picked apart and he can barely hear Rafe for the sudden rushing of wind in his ears, blood or anger or both.

Sam wasn't in prison for fifteen years. It was thirteen. Thirteen, and two spent in Rafe's company, researching Henry Avery, keeping distance, never making contact. Never reaching out despite knowing where Nate was. Letting Nate think he was dead, feeding him some bullshit story about a drug lord and a break out that never happened but Nate was too stupid to check, didn't think to not trust his brother, the family he thought he failed a decade and a half ago.

He denies the story and Rafe shrugs, gesturing at Sam and his brother turns with that telltale face, the same hangdog expression he used to give Nate when they were kids, when he was trying to make up for something. "Nate-" he starts and the name feels foreign when Sam has only ever called him Nathan, and he pushes him away, suddenly feeling sick after everything he ran roughshod over to get them here. Somewhere beyond the pounding in his head, back in the conversation, Rafe laughs.

He had pushed Elena away for this. Pushed Sully away, so desperate to make amends for something that had never truly been his fault in the first place, and Nate only scrabbles his way back into forming sentences when Rafe lifts his gun in Sam's direction. Wanting nothing more than to clock his brother across the jaw he tries again, deciding he can beg Sam for a reason later, when they're still alive and kicking. Nate steps in. ]

Hey, you miss one clue, and you can kiss that treasure goodbye. You said it yourself; you keep running into dead ends. Why don't you face it, Rafe. You need us.

[ For one long, excruciating second Rafe seems to contemplate the offer, and Nate almost thinks he'll take it. The Colt lowers- ]

Yeah, you're right. You're half-right.

[ -and then trains on Nate. ]

I just need Sam.

[ It happens too quickly. Nate protests with an arm outstretched as that dispassionate gaze settles on him, Sam moves in without warning, the gun discharges. For the briefest of instants Nate shut his eyes in acceptance, expecting a bullet that never finds its mark. It clips Sam's shoulder as his brother darts between them and the sudden jerk, the impact, checks Nate in the chest hard. He falls back and the weightlessness is familiar even as his stomach lurches, like missing a step at the top of a stair.

The landscape around him rushes past in a blur of green before he can grab a hold of something, anything, and with a sickening sound his forehead cracks against the cliffside before everything goes dark. ]

[originallutece]

[It's the betrayal that makes her sick. Not the fall-- although that, too, sickening weightlessness and the helpless feeling, she's never done well with helplessness, and this is nothing but that-- but that awful shock.

Like a bucket of ice poured over her head. Like lightning in its swiftness, striking right at the base of her throat, and he wouldn't-- Sam and Robert blur together, and he wouldn't, she thinks, staring at the man in horror, he wouldn't, how could he? It's them against the world, it always has been, how could he ever-- he wouldn't, and yet he looks so ashamed and she knows the truth.

What happens afterwards is almost a relief. Painful, oh, yes, horrifyingly so, the sharp crack as their skull hits rock, as the world goes black and the body tumbles down, oh, god, yes, that hurts so badly. But better physical pain than emotional.

(It's a rock she'd left, for the record. A remarkably smooth rock with a hole in it, perhaps natural and perhaps not, that she'd given as an offering. She'd set it just at the base, and now she regrets it, she really does).]

[callada]

[This is actually helpful in some small way, this scene. Rosinante has already met Rafe - a dismissive, sarcastic man who left a sour initial impression. It's worth knowing the two share a history.

As for who is in the right here and who isn't, it's impossible to say. Nate felt betrayed, that was clear (and by his brother, what a fine coincidence) but he and Rafe both seem like they're not fully on the side of the law if they're running about in jungles, looting treasure. The man is a pirate without an ocean.

No real sympathy, then, just observation. He turns to leave, and hopes Nate enjoys the cup of whiskey left behind for him.]

[fogey]

[ it's a slim white candle that five leaves here. a fairly anonymous gift, but it's not impossible that nate may have seen him with them, this week. ]

[hardwearing]

[ Wash never intended to leave an offering -- he's been actively fighting the compulsion as much as possible, but every now and then he slips and quite frankly, he's not well enough equipped to keep dropping bullets all over the cemetery. He's started carrying a pocketful of little paper flowers just in case.

This time he's out for a run when the urge hits him out of nowhere, so strong that he has to skid to a stop in front of the weathered cross marker. It isn't until the flower is already out of his pocket and he's approached to drop it that he can see the inscription on the base. This is Nate's grave.

Shit.

There's a sharp burst of panic as he tries to snatch his hand back but just drops the flower anyway, watches it flutter to the dirt with wide horrified eyes. Somehow it's worse that he's spying on his friend's death without asking permission -- nobody seems to want theirs seen, but he's sure Nate wouldn't. It's too late, though.

When it passes Wash staggers back from the headstone, breathing fast and shallow from the rush of the fall. He can't even say "at least it didn't hurt" because the death itself wasn't the worst part of that experience. No, it was the shattering of everything he'd believed, his trust violated, the sense of loss and betrayal. Fuck everyone on that cliff, honestly. Wash feels like Sam comes off worse than Rafe, but he didn't recognize Nate's brother... he has met Rafe.

Shit redux.

He honestly doesn't know how to deal with this, if he should admit what he saw or not, if Nate would be angry with him... what's the right move?

For now he's just going to continue his run. ]

sic parvis magna ♦ the grave

[nonscriptum]

[ The stone is a weighty sort of basalt, delicately chipped with the knapping still showing, the fine craftsmanship of a mason etching Celtic knotwork into the crossbars of the marker. It looks old, weathered, of another era several hundred years before this and it shows in the moss that fills the gaps of the decoration, green clinging to muted gray. The once-smooth edges are rough with rain and wind and the plinth - a sturdy thing that keeps the cross upright - bears an inscription as worn as the rest of it:

Nathan Drake
1976 - 2015
Sic ♦ Parvis ♦ Magna

Nothing beside remains. ]

Huh.

[ Hands on his hips Nate chews the inside of his cheek, thoughtful. A little surreal, sure. A little upsetting, on a level he is violently suppressing, wondering if his body will be found and if so, interred in Saint Louis Cemetery Number 1 off of Basin Street, somewhere between Benjamin Latrobe's final resting place and Nic Cage's gaudy pyramid. Barring that, washing up downriver, becoming another skeleton on an island fraught with dead pirates.

A fitting end for a thief. ]

That's a Hell of a thing.

[preseance]

( he's seen enough, an' ain't of a mind to more. it ain't about the dyin'. it's about the lack of permission implicit in the seein' that troubles him. so. he steps up to nathan and bumps his shoulder gently. )

Here.

( he flips nate a coin in the air, confident he'll catch it. it's in near-perfect condition, minted around 41 ad under the reign of emperor claudius. )

Ain't about to leave it as an offerin', but seems right for you to have it anyhow.

[nonscriptum]

[ The light shoulder check startles him briefly, turning to identify the man at his side and Nate immediately smiles, though the expression is muted. He reacts before he can process what Gene tosses in his direction, catching it in one hand and feeling warm metal, distantly identifying it as a heavy washer or a coin.

Sure enough, it's the latter: he opens his palm as Gene continues to speak, frowning a little at the design, the inscription clear enough to identify a period. It's Roman, first century, of the Julio-Claudian dynasty.

That poor Roman-Gallic bastard that everyone thinks was killed by his wife. ]

Holy crap. Where did you get this?

[preseance]

( he's quiet a spell. then, soft, )

Don't suppose you happened by my grave, did you?

( it won't exactly change his answer, but the specificities thereof, maybe just a touch. )

[nonscriptum]

I did.

[ It isn't an easy admission to push out, after the fact. Nate has been shot at more times than he can remember, has never been entrenched in genuine warfare but seen a brand all its own, heard bullets ricocheting against stone as he scrambled for cover, felt the sting of the narrow miss and the dull ache of the lead that struck true.

At best he can be grateful Gene didn't die slow. ]

I'm sorry. I should've asked.

[preseance]

( he lifts one shoulder in a shrug. he's comin' to terms with it. least most folk have told him outright, which is a testament to their respective characters. death's a personal thing, but this place don't seem to truck with that logic. he ain't gonna say it's strictly all right, but. he does drop his hand down against nate's shoulder an' give it a squeeze. ain't no hard feelings. )

Well, then, got it from the ghost of a legionnaire with the Ninth all the way over in North Ireland.

[nonscriptum]

[ No hard feelings, indeed. Nate is reassured, but only just - Gene deserves better than to have people push into his memories, but Nate's experience with the dead tends to function in an entirely different way. Usually one doesn't contact them after the fact. Usually he draws his own conclusions from whatever they left behind.

The luxury of knowing is hard to pass up.

He squints at Gene for a long moment at the information, chewing it over, contemplating its correlation with what he was given in the memory. Reggie hadn't been real - corporeal, at least - so what he's saying isn't abnormal for him. Just...weird, still. ]

...as in, a Roman infantryman. The ghost of an ancient Roman just...gave you a coin.

[voktys]

⟪ It has come clearly from their conversation that Nathan Drake was a traveller of sorts, one who had seen the world and taken delight in it. It did not seem right, to leave him an offering of a wreath or embroidery or paper-flames. In fact, she considers his stone for a while, before she decides.

At this rate, she thinks, as she sets the button down, she won't fix her robe. It's made from an odd material, the feel of ivory but black as night, and if he holds it in the light, he can see the fiery heart of R'hllor carved into it.

And then she is faced with Rafe, and betrayal, and a brotherhood that wasn't one. She has seen the world end in her visions – for her, this is not the worst she's ever seen, nor will any of them be just that. But it is the worst she has felt in a long, long time.

There is no need to seek him out –– he's right there, soon enough. ⟫

Do you wish to speak of it?

⟪ She will if he wants, and will choose a distraction if he doesn't. ⟫

[nonscriptum]

[ He kicks his way back over to his headstone only to see a familiar face: the woman in red, with the strange and interesting accent and the equally strange and interesting religion to which she prescribes her time. Nate stops short of her several feet, watching carefully for a moment and wondering if she had seen. If she wanted to see, and why.

Who would? ]

It?

[ He isn't playing dumb: for a moment, Nate actually doesn't connect the dots. Too tucked away in his own thoughts. When it strikes him properly he looks to the marker, then to Melisandre, his brow furrowed. ]

You- wait, did you-?

[ Nate glances between her and the cross again, this time more pointed. ]

[voktys]

⟪ A nod, and only then does she remember how... tender a subject this was for most people. Melisandre herself has lived her life with visions, seeing them in flame every single day and night, and death was a common, gruesome player in these pieces. Some she tried to prevent (else what is the point of visions) and some she'd let happen, because she had to.

It isn't a violation, in her eyes, but then, many she'd seen thus far had disagreed. ⟫

I suppose it was private. My apologies.

⟪ She does sound sincere. ⟫

If you do not wish to speak of it, I will not pressure you.

[nonscriptum]

No, it's not-

[ How does he articulate this properly? It feels strange to grant permission, but it also feels strange to have someone go behind your back about it. In the end Nate's brief internal conflict allows the grace for understanding. He's been looking at people's deaths too, like some kind of morbid voyeur. ]

It's not private, I don't mind, I just- I didn't think people would want to.

[ Not that there's a lack of intrigue in the macabre here, Nate just didn't think anyone cared enough yet about him to want to look. ]

[voktys]

⟪ It is, for once, quite easy to follow her train of thought just by looking into her face: confusion, first, then the assumption that he must mean people would shirk from viewing other's deaths, and then...

Her mouth shapes into an 'oh', before she steps forward to take his hands in hers. ⟫

You showed concern for me when we had only just met, even though I was none too kind to you when I saw you scaling the church.

⟪ Her usual serene smile is back in place, but her feverishly warm hands don't leave. Mixed feelings she does have – she's highly doubtful he'd much like to speak with her if he knew of the arrangement she has with Rafe, but then, who knows if Rafe could really have used his boomerang to kill him – that seemed woefully ambitious. ⟫ There is goodness in you. I suppose I hoped to see something... peaceful, for your sake.

[nonscriptum]

Yeah, listen, people are generally annoyed with me, so that's not-

[ Uncommon. Out of the ordinary. Any other number of appropriate descriptors for the way that he tends to rub people wrong, pushing against the grain with sarcasm or smartassery. Nate's mouth shuts as Melisandre's hands clasp around his and while he walks the razor's edge of awkwardness as she looks up at him, earnest, he gets the sense she's being genuinely sincere.

His confusion softens when she provides clarification, even if the crooked smile he wears doesn't quite believe her. Compliments, even those come by honestly, have always made him fluster and Nate huffs a laugh, ducking his head. ]

I know a few dozen mercenaries who'd disagree, but...thanks.

[chardismastic]

[ He should've seen this one coming. There was a grave for everyone so of course Nate's had to be somewhere out here just the same. But did it have to be right next to Rafe's own, as if plucked out of the same highlands cemetery and dropped back into Beacon? (Maybe it did. Full circle from Panama to Scotland to Madagascar to here.)

Existential parallels and such thoughts aside, Rafe can't exactly change direction without being ridiculously obvious about it and so he forges ahead until he's standing in front of his own marker, only a few feet from Nate and his Celtic cross. To a casual observer, he might seem nonchalant, a little bored as he taps through his tablet and enters another few notes. But Nate knows better, can probably recognize the studious care Rafe takes to avoid looking at either graves, at Nate, at any of this. Keeping with the theme, all Nate gets is as offhanded a reply as if he'd commented on the weather. ]

That's one way to put it.

[nonscriptum]

[ The irony doesn't escape him.

Of course they're next to each other, inextricably stuck together despite everything, despite how deep Nate buried those days and how much he doesn't want to dig that particular fragment of his life up again. Some treasures are nice to return to, to brush off and set on a shelf. Things like this, he'd prefer not to acknowledge at all.

Nate huffs a laugh through his nose and raises his eyebrows at the marker nearby. ]

Nice ship.

[chardismastic]

Yeah. [ Rafe finally glances up at his headstone, eyes drawn to the ship carved in stone. ] This place sure has a sense of humor.

[ It's the closest he'll get to the Fancy now, that's for certain. Doubtful his grave back home will be anything like this. Assuming the bodies were recovered, he can't imagine his family picking anything except the tackiest, most expensive monument they could find. The thought is sour in his mouth, twisting bitter. Almost wistful before he shakes his head and shifts the conversation elsewhere. ]

Yours went more traditional.

[nonscriptum]

Yeah, well. I am Irish Catholic. Originally, anyway.

[ Before Drake, when his surname was Morgan. They weren't religious about going to mass, but they went often enough that the responses have been drilled into his brain and remain, decades later after he stopped visiting churches for anything other than glorified grave-robbing.

Nate steps over his own grave, rubbing his fingertips against the weathered stone, scratching lichen from granite. The knot work is neat, made with care. It occurs to him that this place could have set his real name in the marker, but didn't. ]

They look like the headstones around the monks' quarters.

[chardismastic]

Certainly look old enough to come straight from St. Dismas. Give it a couple hundred years, could be someone stomps through them same as we were.

[ Rafe's gaze slants across Nate's back, along his arm to the marker before landing back on the tablet. It's the least dangerous option right now. His own grave is a bundle that he doesn't want to unpack right now; Nate's grave seems like it ought to be a private thing; and Nate is... Nate. ]

I saw his, you know. Bridgeman's. Not here, obviously. [ Briefly, anyway, in the brief moment between the dynamiting and the Drakes crashing their way to a seaplane. Not enough time for anything else. Fifteen years and still not enough. ] Guessing that was the clue inside the cross?

et ego homo svm fortvnae ♦ around

[nonscriptum]

[ Nate intends to make a point of wandering through the graves of others, drawing what interests him and leaving small sketches resting on headstones or tombs in exchange for the stories they have to tell. While his activities will probably keep his feet largely on the ground (contain your shock), he'll generally skirt around more populated areas and, barring that, spend his time on the outskirts of those areas, mostly quiet, mostly sketching, mostly keeping to himself.

If you want something in particular, hmu at uncalendula or uncalendula#5439! ]