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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_{[At a time Gene finishes up one of his silent prayers and turns to look behind him, he'll find he's acquired a sentinel a few pews back at some point in the process. M.K.'s attention seemingly slides to him only as an afterthought, but his head is up and hands unclasped; it's clear he hasn't been looking to bend the ear of any higher powers while he's been sitting there.]}

What are you praying for?

_{[It's the kind of opening volley to a round of idle chitchat that anyone might offer up when most of the church pews stand empty aside from them... except it's coming from him, and if there's one thing M.K. hasn't made a point to do in Beacon, it's chat. Not even with the people he's been sharing room 304 with.

Aside from a few words over the bonfire, they haven't spoken much, often coming and going at different times. But now-- Hm.]}

( m.k is quiet as a housecat, an' as ornery as anythin' feral besides. but gene likes him, an' he's hard to startle besides so all m.k gets for his trouble is a nod of greeting. )

Peace.

( not for himself, though he won't volunteer that information outright. he's as peaceable as anyone can be, given the circumstances. but there are a lotta folks out in beacon that're hurtin' tonight over the trauma of their own deaths, an' gene, for maybe the first time in his life or unlife after, ain't quite sure what it is he can do to ease the collective pain. )

Mm.

_{[The creak from the old pew as he leans back into it threatens to drown out the soft sound he makes in response. A hum of thought, a scoff, a grunt of acknowledgement--it could be one, or it could be a mix of all of them, floating nebulously between all three.

Again Gene falls under a scrutinizing gaze. They couldn't be more different on a surface level, he and this mannerly southern boy. Just like the very cat Gene envisions, M.K. goes where he pleases, says what he wants, shows consideration to whom he feels like it and withholds it for those he doesn't. Only recently did he pick up a banner to fight in someone else's name--but even that had been a choice made for himself, not the collective. Not really. Even their desires, identical in lip service--peace, yes, peace, he would've said the same once and had--is refracted through different lenses, focused in different directions. For M.K., inward.

For Gene, outward. For Gene, the most palatable responses for the most people. Respectful, buttoned-up, giving a bit of his time to everyone. He even lets the girl in the face mask talk down to him, a thing M.K. wouldn't abide in his place.

It must be exhausting living in Gene's skin full-time.]}

And how's that working out? Are you feeling more peaceful?

( he ain't never been a dishonest man a day in his life. m.k. asks if he's found peace an' he shakes his head, exhalin' a long breath, hands on the pew in front of him. steady. his boys used to brag about that. doc hicks has the steadiest hands in the 505. it was a badge of honour, once. pride's a sin, but at least it was his sin to make. )

No.

( ain't no comfort to be had in this cloying, claustrophobic darkness. he tips his head to one side, a bit wryly. )

But the world spins on anyhow. How're you holdin' up?

If you did, you wouldn't need the praying.

_{[There are no gods in the Badlands. Beacon has everything--magic, whimsy, purgatory and punishment--but still no gods. The building they sit in is an elaborate bandaid for a state of unhappiness that's as deeply woven into humanity's fabric as religion.

Inclining his chin, he indicates the open spot beside him. An offer, if the other likes.]}

I wasn't afraid to die then, and I'm not now. _{[One shoulder lifts in an offhanded shrug. Better than some, that shrug says. He knows pain; he keeps it close to him, warms himself by it, fuels his darkness with it. He's felt the gut-punch of a hidden memory that crumbled the ground under his feet--that had been painful. These don't compare.]} Whatever spell is at work, the only thing it's doing is telling the truth. There are worse things.

EVENT LOG: GRAVES

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