logsinthenight | EVENT LOG: GRAVES

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.

QUICKNAV
comms	\|	network • logs • memes • ooc
pages	\|	rules • faq • taken • mod contact • player contact • calendar • setting • exploration • item requests • full nav

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ 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. ]

⟪ 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.

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. ]

⟪ 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.

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.

Sellswords tend to agree with whoever is paying them. There is little value to their opinion.

⟪ And this one looks rather a lot like a young dog, with his large eyes and shy duck of his head. ⟫

It wasn't annoyance. I simply did not mean to have to witness even more death in such a short timespan.

[ Nate is pretty sure that mercenaries consider him a massive pain in the ass regardless of what their boss' opinion happens to be, but he won't argue the point. Seems a little moot, now. ]

Look, it's- it's fine, really. I'm just sorry you had to see it.

Not as much as I am to know you had to live through it.

⟪ It is the betrayal, really, that cut as deep as any dagger could have, but she can't let herself fall into silence to ponder it now. Instead, she raises up a hand and strokes his cheek in what she hopes makes for a comforting gesture. ⟫

Come, let us eat something. It's easy to forget about at times like this.

[ The contact is comforting, if confusing, because he certainly hasn't earned it from her. Nate sighs through his nose a little wearily and she's hot - temperature-wise, just bordering on feverish in a way that rivals the air around them - but seems perfectly fine, as though it doesn't bother her, or she hasn't noticed.

There's no arguing with conviction like this. ]

...sure, that's- thank you. [ He reaches up to give her elbow a little squeeze, and then frowns. ] You cook?

⟪ There is an odd shine in her eyes, as if she is trying to hold herself from laughing. ⟫ A few centuries ago now. 'Tis like teaching phantom tortoises, once one knows the way of it, it shan't so easily be forgotten.

⟪ At any rate, the taking of someone's arm by the elbow is just a common way of walking arm in arm, and so this is waht she supposes sis happening. ⟫ I had to take it up again here, though I must warn you, most all found in the store is utterly strange to me.

Is that a euphemism for something?

[ Maybe it's like never forgetting how to ride a bike, or swing on a rope across a chasm while people shoot at you. Simple stuff, perhaps, but in the wake of attempting to postulate whether a phantom tortoise is in fact a phantom in the shape of a tortoise, or just named that way like a glass frog is named a glass frog, Nate almost doesn't catch the other pertinent information.

He eyes her for another long moment but she's already started moving in the direction of somewhere, so Nate follows alongside. ]

...I know it's not polite to ask a woman's age, but...centuries?

Idiom. ⟪ Learned that one from Stannis, she did, so there is a... moment where her mirth vanishes, but she pushes it aside. ⟫ When you wish to train a tortoise to carry your messages, you must repeat certain patterns over and over. And because one does it so often, it stays with you even if it has been years since you last did it.

⟪ Perhaps if horses had factored earlier into her life, she would have used horses as an example. ⟫ If I were to try and seduce you, I would not be speaking of tortoises.

⟪ She pauses, having definitely aimed for the church – ⟫ I am four-hundred and four-and-ten years old. I only learned so this week. Do you live at the tavern?

[ Again: a lot of content, a very short span of time. Nate absorbs it marginally faster by finds himself so stymied by the assertion that she is not seducing him - something that makes him wonder what the Hell her idea of seduction even looks like - that he struggles for a moment to just accept that she is four centuries old.

Then he remembers Taako, and it's less of an issue. ]

I...do.

[ He says with a lilt that almost comes across as a question. ]

I do, yeah. With a couple friends I met in another world.

I am on my own some nights. ⟪ No, Nate, you would rather not know. ⟫ So for the purpose of cooking, you might prefer my room in the church, then?

⟪ In her way, she just blatantly assumes that he won't mind the magic she'll use for the purpose. ⟫

At any rate, we'll need to gather some ingredients at the small market space.

[ He won't ask. Nate picks up on the implication that she spends her evenings in whatever way she chooses, and it's certainly not his place to ask for the details even if he wanted to.

He angles their direction toward the only place they can acquire anything food-related in town and raises an eyebrow. ]

What are you gonna make?

⦑ She smiles at the question, and open, genuine smile as she heads for the corner with the flour. ⦒

Cinnamon flatbread. ⦑ A shrug, as if to explain her enthusiasm. ⦒ 'tis rare to have sweets where I lived most all my life, and it is a comforting thing.

Oh.

[ He has no idea what he was expecting, but it certainly wasn't something that sounds like food he's eaten before in plenty of other countries. Maybe he shouldn't be so surprised that the vast difference in world culture doesn't necessary mean a difference in base ingredients for food.

Nate brightens almost immediately, extending an arm to carry the groceries she picks out. ]

That sounds really good, actually.

⦑ She hands him flour and what she discovers to be cinnamon in a strange vial of sorts –– and then she stops in her tracks. ⦒

By the lord. ⟢ Her eyes flash redder than ever, and the ruby at her throat is pulsing with her elation as she reaches for something else. ⟣ True chilli. 'tis more valuable than gold in Westeros, and the King never thought it was worth his while. Westerosi were not ones for flavour, you see ––

⦑ She bites her lip, as if trying to hold back a smile that's more excited than her usual serene ones. ⦒

How would you feel if I made a dish with it as well? There is meat here, too, and all manners of vegetables –

[ For someone with magpie-like tendencies, it's difficult not to notice that. Nate is so distracted by the glowing gemstone at her throat that he barely registers what she's saying, torn between asking what it is and why it's lighting up in the first place. ]

Wh- um. What? Chili pepper?

[ He glances down at the ingredient in her hands. ]

...sure? I love spicy food. Did you know your necklace is glowing?

It does do that, yes.

⦑ She resists the urge to touch the stone, but she also seems to have forgotten about the food for a moment. Food is the first thing to slip her mind even at the best and easiest of questions. ⦒

It marks me a Priestess of the Red Temple.

[ Nate reaches out to grab the pepper for her, seeing as she's suddenly become distracted in a way that is wholly familiar to him. Nate himself is frequently in that kind of zone, and jerking her out of it seems rude. ]

Can I ask why it glows, or is that a trade secret kind of thing?

⦑ Her eyes focus on him, red and unyielding, seizing him up in a way she had never done before. No more gentle priestess, no more serene smiling. This is a woman who has been threatened with death for far less than a good-sized ruby.⦒

Why do you ask?

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

EVENT LOG: GRAVES

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject