logsinthenight | 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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⟪ Tearing her eyes from the flames, she regards Rosalind with no little appreciation – this is an approach she can cherish, straightforward, no awkward dance around the matter. I watched you die, she doesn't say, no false condolences either.

Wish this was not her sorest point by far, but then again, this is what she herself signed up for when she watched so many of these visions. ⟫

Memories. ⟪ Not even much of a pause here, really. ⟫ From a long time ago. The Lord of Light blessed me with many of His gifts, but even He cannot burn away the beginnings.

No, I suppose not.

[Hm. The former she doesn't know, but the latter . . . that had sounded like some kind of auction. A slave auction, perhaps? She files it away for later.]

Your god, I take it. One singular, or one among many?

There is one of Light and Shadow and Life, and there is the Other, who brings death and darkness and despair.

⟪ Her approach to the explanation has become... more relaxed, through her time in Westeros. ⟫

He brought me out of slavery. Other things, too, but this is what made me a believer.

How?

[That isn't the point here, not when she can still feel the white-hot slice of those knives, when her throat is raw from phantom pain and there's a part of her still grieving-- but on the other hand, why not? What's the point of bringing up what she saw? I felt you die, well, yes, she had, and what of it?

Better to get concrete knowledge. Better to think of other things, not the hot rush of blood or her bitter grief--]

Did some priest of his buy you?

[Oops: there's a little more derision in her voice than there ought to be.]

Morbid, isn't it?

⟪ Stannis' tone had been harsher than hers, he had made his point clearer, but it's much the same point. Part of her agrees – she has no delusions, she had not been gifted freedom, they are called 'temple servants' but slaves is what they were, until they become acolytes proper, priests and priestesses later.

If they're lucky. ⟫

No one there could kill me for a sport, though, and I had food to eat near every day.

⟪ And the flames, she had those, too, and became skilled at reading them before she was ever caught and raised further than she thought possible. ⟫

Is this not what Faith does, in your world?

Faith buys you an excuse each time you wish to commit a sin.

[Now there's really heat in her voice, a disgust that has nothing to do with her companion.]

It's a farce, nothing more.

You know, I have said this same thing about the Faith of the Seven so many are devout to in Westeros. It is never God who forces your hand, nor does He stop it.

⟪ And it is fascinating to her that Rosalind's anger doesn't seem to be directed at her –– Westeros does not make such distinctions. ⟫

Correct.

[Thank g-- thank logic that this woman agrees, because she thinks she might just start a fight if she argued.]

Unfortunately, several of the men I was acquainted with thought it nothing more than a justification and an eraser for their worst actions.

⟪ Oh, Melisandre would argue the latter –– if she considered her worst action anything but good and just, which is among the many fatal flaws in her interal logic. ⟫

I have dealt with a number of self-declared kings. ⟪ And one, single true one, but she won't mention him now. ⟫ I am still not sure if their foolishness was inert or a side-effect of power. At any rate, it has not given me much faith in men.

Hardly anything would, would it?

[In conclusion: fuck men. She looks a little cheered by that, or at least not as irritable as she had a moment ago.]

I assume, then, it's the same in your world: men and their self-importance, and women who are taught that they're there to please them?

⟪ This easy connection is drawing an honest smile out of her, too. God, did it ever feel good to voice it, as opposed to swallow it down and not let any show. ⟫

It is different in the Temple – as a priestess, I am equal to each priest. Anywhere else... quite the same as that which you described. And atop it all royalty, nobility, men who herd knowledge like gold. Hard to tell what disgusts them more: my femininity, my education, or my low birth.

You strike me as uncommonly bright. How many men have foamed at their mouths over it?

EVENT LOG: GRAVES

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