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

raylan givens ( open prompts within! )

[ultimatums]

» IN THE DEEP DARK HILLS OF EASTERN KENTUCKY ( DEATH )

[ultimatums]

[ you can watch here if you don't want to read my ramblings. the video includes all the content after 'so you go in', although obviously raylan is in worse shape because he was shot in the chest, not the hip. ]

The only thing you can think with any clarity is that you have to get inside. The rest of them don't matter, the rest of the world doesn't matter, you just have to get inside. It had been one shot, from inside the building, and then a tattering racket of them, Dickie in the car screaming, "Don't shoot!" and Doyle calling, "Ceasefire!"

Whatever they say between each other as Doyle approaches doesn't catch in your brain because you're down, on the ground in the dirt, wetness under the hand on your chest, and then your light is blocked. Doyle cocks his gun and you think This is it, the way you'd think about the weather. Dickie in the car screaming, unscathed again, he should have died, should have been shot, but if it wasn't you who'd killed him then what would be the point? Then he would have died for nothing.

He should have died for what he did to Helen.

Doyle's going to spray your brain matter everywhere. He says, "This bullet's been on its way for twenty years," and then there's a hole in his head, the sound of the shot echoing through the holler, and Dickie screaming again.

He should be dead for what he did to Helen.

The Marshals are coming, the Marshals are here, cars and sirens and Art's voice: "Raylan? You okay?"

There's sweat on your brow as you're standing up. Art's looking at you with concern and you nod, brush it off, shrug your jacket over the wetness that you won't look at, won't think about, not until you get inside. You tell him, "I've been better. It's good to see you, Art." And then, "We got at least two inside. One being Loretta McCready."

So you go in.

Loretta is near-hysterical inside, but the gun she's pointing at Mags is steady. She only starts to seem like a child again when she's crying, fourteen years old and she just misses her daddy. Shooting Mags won't bring him back. Shooting Dickie wouldn't bring Helen back. And Helen, well, she wouldn't have wanted that.

Helen, crucially, doesn't currently want anything.

There's some sense of relief when you get a hand on Loretta's shoulder, to steer her out of the room. When Tim has her gun and she's under Rachel's wing, and she's going, and she's gone, and you can feel the sweat dripping down your forehead and the blood coagulating in your chest, in your body. You tell her, as a courtesy, that her son is dead. Doyle, with a bullet in his head. That her other son is in custody. Dickie, in the car, screaming. Dickie, in the woods, screaming, your gun to his head, he'd been sobbing, "You don't have to do this, Raylan," and in the end you didn't, you didn't, but right now you know you won't leave this house, and maybe you should have.

Mags says, "You like a drink?"

"Apple pie?"

"Ease the pain."

So you sit down with Mags, and you get your drink. Whatever proof she makes her moonshine, it's enough to make you grit your teeth when you swallow, but it does ease the pain. There's no hesitation, no waiting for her to drink first – you're dying, now, you know you are and she knows you are, so what use would she have in poison?

You shake hands, end the feud. The way it should have ended, years ago, when you swung your bat at Dickie's knee and knocked his kneecap clean out. The way it should have ended, years ago. If it had been like that, if it had been different, if you hadn't done that to Dickie and extended an argument in its dying years when you were a kid, then maybe Helen—

Mags' hand around yours is tight, suddenly, a pincer grip. She says, "It was already in the glass. Not in the jar." All you can do is watch. Hold her hand. She has faith, somehow. She'll see her boys again, understand the mystery. You think about your momma, about Helen, about every person you've ever lost. You think about your father, still alive, goddamn him. Whatever's coming next, you won't see them again, you're sure of that. There's no place for you in eternity, and you were always going to die here anyway. You think about your momma. You think about Winona, the baby, your baby, the baby you'll never see. Mags breathes her last and slouches in her seat, and a bubble of blood pops at the corner of your mouth and dribbles over your lip, and you hope it's a girl, and then you're on the boat.

» IT'S THERE I READ ON A HILLSIDE GRAVESTONE ( GRAVE )

[ultimatums]

[ raylan's gravestone, morbidly enough, is not unfamiliar to him. it's old, older than it has any right to be, inscribed simply with:

RAYLAN GIVENS

Beloved son of Frances
and Arlo

1970 — 2011
the bulk of the inscription bears over thirty years of weathering, the embossed and bevelled letters caught with moss and dirt, the crispness of the engraving worn down to smoothness at the corners. the only part for which this isn't the case is the final date, 2011, which is quite obviously recently carved.

over the course of the week, he won't be spending any time by the thing, although shortly after finding it on the first day, he'll be caught up staring at it for some time, arms folded over his chest, brow furrowed. ]

[nonscriptum]

[ He'd done the rounds once already, after he figured out what it was.

The swelling in the air like a coming storm had made him feel as though this place was just like the one before, that every so often they would be faced with a test of sorts, something they would have to fight their way through or suffer, silently, not that either situation was foreign to someone like him. Nate might have expected the turn for the macabre given their circumstances, but he still isn't fond of the notion that someone might experience the moments before his own death - not for the content, but for the sensation. Falling isn't easy.

His loop takes him back around to one of the first headstones he found and at the time it had struck him as strange, how old the marker was. Like it had been put out for a few decades of wear and tear before someone committed to carving new dates on the right side. Not uncommon for family stones in cemeteries, not uncommon for communal plots, but odd that it was for one person, and one person only.

Nate doesn't have the luxury of anonymity with this visit and almost stops to swing wide a dozen yards away when he sees the hat. Privacy is well-deserved and, frankly, earned after what he'd been given for the little piece of folded paper he'd tucked between the stone and the earth, secured from blowing away, but he knows the set of a man's shoulders in times like this.

He meanders over in plain view so as not to startle, or more importantly, to give Raylan time to tell him to fuck off if that's what he'd prefer. ]

Hey.

[ultimatums]

[ raylan can feel someone coming close – the hat doesn't cut off as much peripheral vision as you might think – and for a second he wants to spit out a fuck off without looking, but something about all of this makes him look up, and then he can only be glad that he did. seeing nate, his shoulders sag a little, not much but enough that it feels like something, a release, however small.

he's not quite healed enough by nate's presence to do anything as shocking as smile, but it does something to reduce the hostility in his gaze. ]

Hey yourself.

[nonscriptum]

[ The tension fades but only just and Nate gives Raylan a little nod in response, ambling to his side and unconsciously mirroring his stance, arms folded over his chest. This isn't the sort of meeting that calls for his usual gesticulation and it's better to cut that off at the knees before he forgets himself.

There are a lot of things he could say, sentiments that come across as hollow, or pitying, neither being sentiments he wants to communicate when pity doesn't enter into it. People draw the short straw. They die in their sleep or in horrible, regretful ways. He's seen more bodies in his lifetime than anyone has the right to shake a stick at, but a pile of bones doesn't have quite the gravitas that a marker does.

Concrete, solid. Literally set in stone. ]

How you holding up?

[ultimatums]

Oh, you know, [ he says, light and breezy, and holds his shoulders up in a shrug that lasts a few more seconds than it probably should. when he lets it go, his shoulders sag a little low. he doesn't want to be here, thinking about this, looking at this stupid piece of stone, getting angry about all the things he can't change any more. ] You know that poster of the cat on the clothesline?

[nonscriptum]

[ Hang in there, baby. He almost quips something about the cat in question resembling his own jackassery around town but the joke probably wouldn't stick the landing, and even Nate knows when to curtail certain impulses. This isn't the time. ]

Yeah, I know the feeling.

[ Raylan is tense and tensing, and that combined with the airy nonchalance has Nate eye him with a nervousness bordering on knowing. Been there, done that. He reaches out and lightly pats the back of his arm. ]

...C'mon, I wanna show you something.

[ultimatums]

Better be somethin' good. [ raylan hopes, since he's sure as hell not going to say it out loud, that nate can somehow sense the waves of gratitude that he's throwing in his direction. for the distraction, for the company, for – whatever. raylan's only too happy to walk away from his grave, only too relieved to fall into step beside nate. ] 'S it gonna be funny?

[preseance]

( they're bein' confronted with somethin' most humans never come to be keenly aware of — their own mortality an' death, an' the awful specifics of what follows. gene ain't leavin' offerings, a coin placed on a table and a prayer murmured for peace are all this place is gettin' outta him an' consider that a lesson well learned besides, but. he's still makin' his rounds. helpin' the dead ain't a thing what's stopped for him now that he's among their ranks, it's just changed his perspective some.

he comes up next to raylan, though he troubles himself to be louder than his normal step about his approach. he can't parse much from the inscription on account'a his troubles with the written word, but. he can guess.

he doesn't say a goddamn thing, just holds out a flask for him to take a hearty swallow. )

this is so late i'm so sorry

[ultimatums]

[ raylan's response is immediate and similarly silent. he only has to look sidelong for a second for his hackles, raised, to lower a little, and then he reaches over for the flask and knocks back a mouthful. it's back in gene's hand not long after it had left. raylan stuffs his hands in his pockets and shakes his head.

the look he levels at gene this time, brow furrowed, is more concentrated. ] Someone's gotta be fuckin' with us on this one.

[preseance]

( he shrugs a bit, feelin' the catch an' pull of that mass of scar tissue on his left side. funny, ain't it? they're dead, these surely ain't their real bodies, but the mind remembers pain. )

Maybe it's a test.

( he doesn't say it with any conviction. he's too damn tired for that. but this whole place seems like it's in that kinda way, with the resets an' what that entails for the rest of them. if he didn't know better he'd say it was a matter of facin' down your demons from the livin' world an' overcomin'. )

[ultimatums]

[ honestly, it sounds about right, and raylan hates the thought. if it's a test, that implies there's a tester. someone overseeing, watching, getting off on this shit. his jaw works and he looks away, shaking his head. ]

I would not be surprised. Feels targeted.

[ as if this is going to do absolutely anything other than make himself feel a whole lot more ineffectual, he gives the headstone a light tap with the toe of his boot. ]

Thought I was done lookin' at this thing.

[preseance]

( there's tension roilin' off him like a dark wave. it ain't that he's mad, leastwise not in any obvious or notable way, it's just. there's a sense to him. like smellin' rain in the air or spottin' far off thunderclouds against a noonday sky.

thought i was done lookin' at this thing. the old date an' the new one. this is, he realizes, at the very least somethin' of a simulacrum of a very real thing back home for the man. an' not a very pleasant memory, by the sound of it. every man's a mortal one, but ain't many who care to be reminded of that fact.

gene drops a hand against the man's shoulder, squeezes faintly. )

Y'wanna come away from here, or is your plan to safeguard it some?

[ultimatums]

[ the question makes him snort, a blustery breath, and he shakes his head and turns away. in the process he shrugs off gene's hand, only halfway an accident. it's not that the comfort isn't appreciated, it's just – he doesn't want it, not right now. ]

Be happy to go. [ as if to demonstrate his enthusiasm for the idea, he doesn't even give the headstone another look before he turns on his heel. raylan was blessed with very little tact when he's otherwise engaged, so in an effort to move focus away from himself he shoves somewhat brutally in another conversational direction. ] Saw yours, I think.

» WALK WITH ME OUT OF THE MOUTH OF THIS HOLLER ( WILDCARD )

[ultimatums]

[ as far as raylan's concerned, people can do what they want with his grave. the resentment he's had for it near enough his whole life is enough to make him stay away – whatever hokey magic bullshit's going down when you leave things on it, that has nothing to do with him. raylan himself will be pretty much glued to the invincible bar, ignoring whatever the hell it is that's going on.

mostly out of curiosity, at one point, he'll ask the forest spirits serving the bar if he can have a glass of apple pie moonshine, and upon realising that it doesn't taste too far removed from mags' home brew, he'll be drinking that and nothing but. the newly unlocked Extremely Drunk Raylan will be leaning all of his weight on the bar, head flopping like it's far too heavy to keep on his neck.

if you want another more specific starter, hit me up at crowders or on discord! ]

[originallutece]

[Is there anyone who isn't drinking this week?

Mary, maybe. Any of the littler ones. But the adults? Oh, why wouldn't they? It isn't just seeing your own death, but seeing others-- all of them, because each time she heads outside she finds herself compelled to drop a token at a grave. Some of them are artistic things, bits of scrap metal she'd idly made into birds and fish; some are basic, rocks that are unnaturally smooth and fit in the palm of your hand. It doesn't matter. She gets the same visions either way, and so she'd died at least a dozen times, over and over, left gasping and staring with wide eyes as phantom pain slowly faded.

So. Alcohol.

The spirits are busy tonight, their hands pouring drinks over and over-- and though they don't ignore Rosalind, she's also not their favorite customer. So there's an empty wine glass in front of her, and he's slumped on the table, so, you know what?

That moonshine is hers now. Or at least part of it is, as she takes his glass, fingers wrapping around it with possessive delicacy. She ignores the fact he's not technically passed out; he's close enough, and she's too driven to distraction to care.

It's high-proof, that's for certain. It gets the job done, both as alcohol and, possibly, as a toilet cleaner. She hisses softly, her mouth pursing, but keeps going over that first sip.]

[ultimatums]

[ raylan may be slumped on the table but his peripheral vision, hazy though it may be, is still in fairly good working order, at least enough that he registers someone nearby, a vaguely familiar scent the moment they're close. it takes some considerable effort to lift his head even with his hat nearby. he looks at her dimly, recognition slow to come. the hair, first, and then the rest of her. ]

To what— [ jesus. that sounded like it came out of a gurgling toilet that won't flush any more. he clears his throat and tastes the cider, the apple juice, the punch of alcohol. well – he's drunk, already. might as well be a dumbass about it ] To what do I owe the pleasure?

[originallutece]

Take your pick.

[She's tipsy, but not nearly as far gone as him, which means she gets to regard him with equal parts skepticism and vague amusement.]

Seeing my own grave? Not particularly. Witnessing the moment of my death? Perhaps. Witnessing at least ten other deaths? Ah, well. That might just be your answer. And what about you, hm?

[ultimatums]

Don't know if you can tell, [ he sucks in a breath and it catches in his throat until he swallows, ] but I'm three – no, let's be generous, four sheets to the wind. And, [ he's only really come to realise this right now, at this very moment, ] you have my drink.

[originallutece]

[She takes a moment to very carefully, very deliberately sip from the glass, her eyes locked on his the entire time. It still tastes foul, but this is about a point.]

Correct.

[Unnecessarily added as she sets the glass down, her fingers still tracing around the rim.]

Don't fuss, now. You'll spoil the conversation. Tell me why you're here.

[ultimatums]

Well, it bein' a bar and all, I figured I'd come here and get a drink. [ he makes a whadda you know! face and pauses a moment. ] Thought you were smart. Askin' me questions like that, I might start to think otherwise.

[policier]

( They haven't spoken to each other since their conversation on the network, but Javert has seen hat face around on more than one occasion. He's never gone out of his way to talk to him, Javert has never been that sociable or pestering, but when he sees Raylan halfway bent across the bar, he makes it his business to check on him. )

Hey.

( He takes the seat next to him, and places his hand on Raylan's back in an attempt to shake him out of his drunken stupor. )

I think it's time for you to get back to your room.

[ultimatums]

[ oh, this just cannot be happening. raylan is not going to allow it. he's shaken, and he lifts his head, but that's about as far as this is going to go. javert will gain no more ground here. ]

Think it's time for you to get your hands off of me.

[policier]

Wouldn't have to if you weren't sprawled all over the bar.

( He does pull his hand away, though, and stays seated in the stool next to Raylan's. If he's leaning slightly into his space, it's only because he wants to be within arm's length of him, should he stumble out of his chair. The next words out of his mouth are a little more stern than before. )

You've had enough now, come on. Let's get you back home.