In the Night Moderators (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
inthenightmods) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
logsinthenight2019-07-12 01:00 pm
inthenightmods) wrote in logsinthenight2019-07-12 01:00 pm
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.
| QUICKNAV | |||
| comms | | | network • logs • memes • ooc | |
| pages | | | rules • faq • taken • mod contact • player contact • calendar • setting • exploration • item requests • full nav | |
Jon Snow | Game of Thrones | Open Prompts Within
His Death
Somewhere between the adrenaline of the battle and the looming certainty of death, the mass of bodies becomes one in your mind. There is no distinction between the living and the dead, only the instinct of the battle and the swing of the sword in your hand. Slowly though, you watch as the numbers grow, climbing over the small island you claimed as the high ground. The lake is frozen, ensuring that the full force of the army begins to smash against your ranks. Less and less do you see the ice and snow, now there is only moving dark rivers of undead soldiers racing towards you, blighting away any light, heat and hope you have.
You can smell the blood in the air, from your own wounds and the men behind you, the men who promised to help you but you realize you have just lead to their deaths. The cold doesn't register anymore. There's only the deep, lingering sound of the air in your lungs, drawing and exhaling as everything seems to be converging on one single moment, the moment you are overrun and you are torn to pieces. Limb from limb, until you are nothing more than a scattered husk left to serve the Night King, watching from his perch nearby.
Just as you raise your sword, ready to embrace what will come, heat comes at your back. instinct again drives you, forcing you to your knees as you fall in time to avoid the stream of dragon flame. The ice breaks beneath the wights and several are plunged into the water.
There they are against the darkness, three large figures and a woman in white directing them. The burning swords against the night, the dragons that once were believed to be gone but had come again at the bidding of the woman now driving them to save you. You can only stand in stunned silence as she decimates wave after wave of the wights, until there is an end in side and a minor quiet to allow you to charge towards her. There is no thought, not even as you knock a friend out of the way to get to her. You can only see the literal embodiment of the dawn in her form, the unparalleled beauty and marvel that she is. She came, even when you couldn't be sure word would reach her or she would make it in time, she came to save your men and your life.
As you reach the dragon, your hand flies up towards her with hers already leaning down to meet you. You are of the same thought and instinct, doing whatever you can just to be together again. But there is a shadow in the corner of your eye, something to drag you away from the emotions that overwhelm you, dragging you back to reality. You're a soldier and there are men that need to escape first.
Without word, you race into the horde, swinging and cutting down any dead that risk cutting off your men's retreat. You don't see the Night King ready his spear or notice it singing through the air, it's only when you hear the guttural cry of the dragon in pain that you look up. It's already careening towards the ground, Viserion the golden one, blood and flame mixing together as he crashes into the ice.
There is silence, stillness, a tension in the air like utter destruction. The dragons seemed invincible moments ago, deadly and enough to turn the tides in what was an unwinnable war. Suddenly there is a streak of blood against the ice and the dragon's body sinks below the waves into the deep of the lake.
Anger fuels you, a whispering voice that reminds you 'kill the Night King and the rest will fall'. You think you can manage it, the rage in you wants to drive you to try. To at least extinguish this pain and racing adrenaline that tears through you painfully. But as you prepare yourself, you see another spear is being handed to the Night King and his eyes watch Daenerys and Drogon.
"Go! Go now!" You aren't sure what you're yelling, only that you need for them to escape, for your men to be safe, for her to get away. There's no conscience decision you will stay behind, maybe you even assume you can make it back to the dragon in time as she is readying to take to the air. But just as you start nearing her, a weight collides against your side, knocking you back and down.
Are they wights? You can feel their arms holding you in a vice grip and them dragging you down in the waters. The blast of cold makes your heart stop, crashing against your chest as the shock fills you. Your body can't move, your throat already filling with water as you try to cry out. Struggles come to late and the vision ends before you understand what is happening.
Death had lingered before, leaving Jon lying under the moonlight as his wounds bled out, but this time it had claimed him quickly, not wanting to lose him again.
His Grave
A Son of Ice and Fire
283 AC - 304 AC
[While the name might be different, there is no mistaking the statue for anyone other than Jon. His face has been perfectly recreated, the same brooding expression, the same weight in his shoulders, the same determination in his eyes.
At his left is a carved wolf, larger than an average one, watching the visitor with a steady and silent gaze. At his right, and curled around his feet, is a dragon. It's head is craning up towards Jon, gazing at him instead of the mourner.
You will find the owner of the grave there quite often, staring at the dragon and the carved name in confusion. It isn't the presence of the grave that disturbs him, it's the identity...
...the identity that must be a mistake. It must be.]
[ooc: If you leave an offering, drop a note HERE]
no subject
So when he passes by again and sees the man there, in person, he pauses in his rounds. Before he can regally compose himself, he blurts out the first thing that springs to mind.]
Were those dragons genuine living creatures?
[....hi?]
no subject
So when he faces Cao Pi, it's with a measure of warmth in his features (as much as he was capable of). Anger could at least be ignored for now.]
They were. The woman who rode the largest woke them from stone eggs. They are the first dragons to be returned to our world.
[There's admiration of his tone. He can't help it, even still, the subject of Daenerys drew affection from him.
no subject
To think, beings believed to be mystical in one world are real and living in another. What a strange and wonderful twist of fate.
[his hand comes to rest on the paired swords sheathed at his side; there are no dragon emblems on his weapons or clothing at the moment, only Wei fenguangs on some of his inner layers]
The only ones I have ever seen were embroidered on imperial robes or carved into the doorposts of my palace. Forgive my enthusiasm upon seeing your...unfortunate circumstances.
no subject
They were more myth for a time. They were gone for years, the last dragons dying off long before I was born. Their eggs were nothing but stone. Then one day, they are hatched and larger than most of the recent stories.
[No one thought it possible, but they were there again, larger than a cat and casting shadows over Westeros.]
They are a sigil of your house?
no subject
More like a sacred beast, joining tigers on every spot where something can be decorated. At the same time, they are an emblem of the emperor, so one had best be on their guard when deciding to claim the dragon for themselves.
[he glances back at the statue] ...wings are a different touch, though.
no subject
No one else can wear dragons? [He couldn't claim to be an emperor, the dragon should not even be at his side. He couldn't say whether he was a true Targaryen or not, but he didn't feel as if he were a dragon.] Only the Targaryens and the Blackfyres have this emblem. Other Houses have ones of their own.
House Stark is a direwolf.
The wings? How are they different?
no subject
[that's right, whether imperial or not, he knows how house emblems matter]
Our dragons have no wings. [but that's neither here nor there] Let me guess. That is your house.
no subject
[The sigils didn't matter as much to him, but he still wore them all the same.]
No, not exactly. I'm a bastard. I don't have a house sigil.
no subject
But there was something else there just as interesting...]
You were king? Well, then. As one to another, well met. [with an incline of his head, but most certainly not a bow] Cao Zihuan, Lord of Wei. You may refer to me as Cao Pi.
no subject
[It was a bit more poetic than "The North".]
no subject
Yes, and my father's before me. [is that shade? that might be shade] I suppose even in death I cannot help but fall back on titles.
no subject
He wouldn't judge someone for preferring their title.] Your kingdom is still a part of you.
no subject
[whew that came dangerously close to opening up and letting his secret emotions show in front of someone. Cao Pi brushes it aside and shifts his focus back to Jon because we can't have personal feelings here]
Former royalty or still royalty, either way. I am glad to find a few people around here with something in common. Human nature may change very little over time and across dimensions, but there are still experiences which others cannot relate to.
Wildcard
(( offering only ))