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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I'm fine.

[It's such an automatic answer that there's no pause. It rolls off her tongue easily, because she's always fine, even when she isn't.]

And even if I wasn't, Mr. Givens . . . what precisely will you do about it? If I told you I was full of grief or rage, what would you do?

Well, I don't know, Ms Lutece. [ he means for that to sound cold, but he comes across more like a petulant child than he'd have hoped. ] I'd offer you a drink but you already stole mine.

[She turns her head. Looks at him for a long few seconds, her head tipped, studying him with those cold blue eyes. And then, quietly, she smiles. It isn't happy. It certainly isn't anything friendly. But it isn't nasty either, and that's a lot, for her, at a time like this.]

Buy me a drink, Raylan.

[It's a quiet instruction, bossy but not. A moment, and she nudges her (his) glass back towards him. There's only a bit left, but. Gestures.]

[ well. at least it's a smile? raylan stares at her for a few seconds, as much as he can keep his focus. it's admittedly cleared up a little in the wake of this slightly sobering conversation, but he'd very much like for that to change, so he takes the glass back and drains it. it's strong enough to burn hard in the center of his chest and chase out a cough. he bares his teeth as he swallows, grimacing, and sets the empty glass down. ]

Two more, [ he tells the nearest spirit. she didn't specify, and she'd been drinking his 'shine, so. ] You know, some people... Not me. But some people. They might could be put off by your – demeanour.

Yes. I know. I spent most of my teenage years cultivating it.

[She wraps both hands around the glass as the spirit puts it down, pleased at the chill that shoots up her fingers. Her thumbs rub up against the glass, symmetrical motions that mean nothing at all. That moonshine is stronger than it seems, and she blinks once, slowly, her mind spinning just a little as she realizes she's tipping from tipsy to drunk.

Hm. That's not good, and yet she can't bring herself to care.]

Men-- hmm, men take too many liberties otherwise. They take the slightest friendly glance as invitation. Besides: if they're put off by a few cold words, there's little chance they can handle me.

[A few seconds pass. She considers this answer. It's accurate. It's what she might have said if she was sober-- but because she isn't, she adds, just a little sulkily:]

And I dislike most people . . . they're so dull.

[ this could very easily be some pointed critique of raylan and, probably at least to an extent, it is, but raylan can't bring himself to be offended. people have always had things to say about him, and it's been getting progressively easier his whole life to let it roll off him. only a little of it sticks, each time. ]

You remind me of someone, [ he says, quite apropos of nothing. ] Someone I knew back home.

[Shockingly, this isn't a veiled critique of him, if only because he hasn't tried to flirt with her yet. She just doesn't care for men. She glances over at him, mildly intrigued, if only because she is of the opinion that there are so very few people like her in general.]

A friend or an enemy?

[ it almost makes him laugh, the simplicity of the question compared to any weighty answer he might give. ] Little bit of both. He's got this way of talkin'. [ he blows out a breath through his nose, just shy of a laugh, and grins. ] Can't decide if he'd love you or hate you.

[So it's one of those things. Complicated, in a way she tries to avoid.]

I can tell you easily. Does his opinion differ or align with yours on most issues? And don't try and weasel out of the question, Raylan, it's one or the other.

And given that answer . . . do you find yourself more exasperated or fond of me? There's your answer.

EVENT LOG: GRAVES

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