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.

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[Video link here, skip to 14:00 or so, after the commercial break. If you want a quicker version the relevant manga pages are here, read right to left. I'd recommend you do at least one of the two so the following makes sense as it's mostly introspection rather than rehashing dialogue.]

Rosinante greets Doflamingo with retaliation, as he had wished he could have done for all three - nearly four - of the years he'd spent in his brother's shadow. Three years and some months spent in quiet obedience, meanwhile carefully, secretly noting down every overheard tidbit and copying every stolen document. So when he points his pistol at Doflamingo and speaks his true affiliation with the Marines, he does so clearly, with focus, with pride even though his ribs are broken and his lungs don't seem to be bringing in enough air. It's not a confession. It's an attack, aimed straight at his brother's heart.

(But he feels the need to apologize anyway. Not to Doflamingo but to the child behind him, hidden and silent in the treasure chest. He's a Marine. He's Law's enemy because of this. The Marines participated in genocide and he does not expect to be forgiven, even if he wasn't there in person. How foolish was he, to cling this whole time to someone bound to hate him, and justifiably so? How selfish, to lie just so he could be loved?)

All Doflamingo wants is power. He wants a right-hand man who will grant him immortality so he can conquer throne after throne. He demands answers from Rosinante - where is the fruit? If Law has it, where is Law? Where is the child who will die for him as the third Corazón? The other executives of the Donquixote Family stand passively, probably just as afraid as Rosinante once was. It's funny how in the face of death, he's the only one who will even make an attempt to put an end to the cascade of tragedies his espionage has foretold. The rest just wish to ride Doflamingo's coattails to the top of every palace.

Law isn't one of them. Law will never follow. Rosinante can't stop Doflamingo at this point any more than he could stop those razor-sharp strings from caging the entire island, but he can get Law out safely. If he only ever does one good thing with his whole life, let it be this. And so as Doflamingo carries on, accusing him of being too soft, too weak, he stands with broken, bleeding limbs, pistol ready to fire.

(Sorry, Law. Again. He'd lied to the boy too many times in one day. Told him Doflamingo wouldn't kill him for this, just so the child to sit down and stay hidden in that chest. Tried to make light of things just so Law would remember him smiling and full of love. That was not a lie; he's probably never been so sincere.)

"He is free!" he shouts, spitting in the face of everything Doflamingo wants. There will be no obedience here today and he will not face death sitting down. Nearly four years without a single spoken word to his brother ends in a declaration of Law's liberation from a future of chaos and destruction. This is his will - that Law should live to make his own choices, no matter what they end up being. At least they'll be his own, and not Doffy's.

He'd expected the first shot. The second hits as the first is registering still. It's not the first time he's been shot, not even the first time today, but as the third, fourth, and fifth punch right through, all he can hear is the ringing in his ears still. It's good he stood. There was no chance the bullets could go through the wood of the chest. Law should still be safe - poor boy. He surely feels the impact as Rosinante collapses backward onto the hard metal edge of the box and slumps back down against its side, shrouded in feathers while red decorates the snow around him. Doesn't even get to keep his uncomfortable wooden pillow, but it's not the fall back into the snow he notices so much as the sudden absence of tiny, silent fists thumping against his back through the planks.

Whatever is going on out there, he can't see it now. Can't really even hear it. He's tired, and cold, and alone. Nobody will witness his final moments, but he doesn't need that. All he can do is concentrate on staying alive for just one more breath, then another. He has to buy Law a few extra seconds to escape, for each moment he clings to life is another moment where nobody will hear the child who must be running by now. Who hopefully will get far, far away from here so he can live a life free of anyone else's demands. Maybe, with a stroke of luck, Law will even think of him again some day and remember him smiling.

[Feel free to leave offerings in reply to this post if your character comes across it while he's away and doesn't come talk to him about it in another prompt.]

Edited 2019-07-13 18:38 (UTC)

It doesn't take long for Rosinante to learn the significance of the graves. One offering to one person and it clicks. It takes a little longer to locate his own: a simple white cross facing the water placed at the head of a stone plaque bearing the inscription:

Rosinante Donquixote
b. July 15, 1485
May the ocean always guide him.

For a while, he sits by it in contemplation. It's horrifying that it's here, it doesn't belong here and doesn't make sense - but touch confirms it's not an illusion. Is this what Sengoku had made for him? Must be. It's nothing special. Just another Marine grave.

Should anyone bring an offering while he's there, he'll turn to face them. No makeup today other than lipstick, a sort of bare minimum to look like he's made an effort. "Why do you want to see this?" he'll ask, sounding more defeated as the days go by.

Witnessed his death and want to talk about it away from the immediate vicinity of the graves? He'll be collecting items for offerings at the lakeshore, finding nice rocks, tiny shells, interesting bits of driftwood, or possibly gathering little candies and bottles of alcohol at the general store.

Of course, after a few hours of pouring booze into cups for the people he wants to snoop on, he'll retreat to the bar to get plastered because he's out of cigarettes and life sucks big time. Shittiest birthday ever. Find him humming some foreign song to himself while he pokes at his tablet and downs a few too many drinks. Dodge a glass he accidentally knocks off the table and straight at your feet with a swing of an arm. "Sorry," he might say. Sounds a bit slurred. Take him up to his room so he can sleep it off.

As always, feel free to wildcard.

i;; once more, with clarity.

[ daylight's grave definitely stands out for the fact it's proportional to his size. the marble and metal firepit stand also burns with a lit fire. while it does not emit light, it sure as hell emits heat, blazing and true, when one dares to approach it.

there's a plaque on the stand, simply inscribed with the following:

Daylight vis Lornlit, the Sunsung.
Kindled of Radiance vis Noxolarium, the Sundered Star.
Kindled from Lorem Laurel.

Deserved better.

leaving an offering on daylight's marker causes the individual to fully experience daylight's death: he had taken a shot for someone else, both impulsively and instinctively stepping into the line of fire when he turns a corner, minding his own business, and sees someone he considers a friend having a gun levelled at their unsuspecting back. the fact the gun is behind held by someone he trusts, someone he cares for - that twist only adds to the numb shock and confusion that leads up to him getting blast through the chassis.

after that, as he lies on the ground, struggling to breathe, daylight registers pain. a lot of it too. it takes him a second to realise why: his chassis has been blown apart and his insides are torn to shreds, leaving him/the offerer in a riot of fear and confusion and horror. he's just realising that he's probably not going to make it and he's scared.

others on the starship now rush to his side, only adding to the pandemonium as they crowd around him. some humanoid, some decidedly not, and all shouting questions, yelling concern. he wants to speak with them, to answer them, but he's finding it difficult to concentrate on anything that isn't painfearconfusionpainhurtwhywhywhy-

the chaos, the confusion, the cold, cold stare of his shooter (his friend) gives him as she stares him down only adds to his fear and his panic, even as he begins to slip away. someone's shaking him, screaming, but he can't focus on them. he can only focus on how scary this is and how he'll never make his parents proud now. he's sorry he's disappointed them and the others.

but not once - onot once - does daylight regret taking the shot. ]

ii;;; and there is pansies, that’s for thoughts.

[ despite what he experiences the first time around, daylight decides to commit and continue to leave offerings on others' graves/markers/what-have-yous. his items to them are simple enough: paper flowers, many of them coming in different colours but made by his hand so they're prominent in size.

when he spots the person standing near their grave upon reaching it, daylight can't help but pause in his tracks. as if that'll stop them from noticing the looming boy, flower at hand. ]

Oh- Hey there. Um... I... [ he falls quiet for a few seconds, clearly unsure of what he can say or ask considering the circumstances. when he finally speaks up again, it's only so he can ask this question: ] Are you standing guard too?

[ it's something he noticed with others during the days of this weird, invasive cemetery popping up. and he can't blame the others, really. he understands why they're doing that and it makes him wonder if the one before him is also doing just that. ]

iii;;; one (1) new message.

[ at the start of hell week, just around the time that everyone is beginning to realise what the heck these graves could actually do, your character will be getting the following message from daylight.

it's surprisingly short and sweet for a chatterbox like daylight. perhaps a good thing, given the topic. ]

Hey- I think I found your marker. I swear I wasn't looking for it but I found it.

Can we talk?

[ ooc: this prompt is meant for individuals who have had friendly cr with daylight. feel free to assume he accidentally sent it to your character if we don't have cr! ]

iv;;; wildcard!!

[ want to do something else? feel free to do it here! also, you’re welcome to hit me up/plot with me via my plurk prognostic if there’s something specific you want. ]

♫ Dear God - Lawless

All the people that you made in your image, see them fighting in the street
C.W. Suicide, Parental Death. Video contains violence.

[ There's nothing particularly striking about the tombstone in question. No decorative features, no words to remember the person by. Not even a date of birth or death adorns the face of it, just a name and only a last one at that;

Van Helsing
(( It begins with this 2 min video and carries over to the scene written out below. Note: Dark Blue = Abigail. Dark Red. = Dmitri. Black = Scarlett. ))

[ Scarlett struggles to breathe, barely able to squeeze enough air past the vice-like grip on her throat as she watches the decision register in the older woman's eyes. She doesn't need to hear her next words to know what's about to happen. They were more alike than either would get to realize. ]

Scarlett? [ Anguish twists the blond's features, a thousand apologies that would never be heard passing between them with a simple look. Scarlett still struggling in Dmitri's grip as Abigail's words - Her mother's words - rise above the buzzing in her ears as she tries to blink away the spots that dance in front of her eyes. ]

If the Elders were ever able to rejoin again, then the coffin to the Dark One can be reopened.
We can never let the elders create the proper pathway for him to return. Do you understand? We all die if that happens. Every last one of us.

Do you. Understand?

[ A dozen different scenarios play out in her head but every path leads her to one inevitable conclusion, Scarlett's eyes growing wet with unshed tears as she forces herself to watch what happens next. Their bodies hit the floor in unison, Dmitri loosening his grip along with a guttural scream of frustration at the sight of the pool of blood spreading around Abigail Van Helsing's body, the battle axe she'd been wielding only minutes ago, still lodged in her chest as Scarlett watches the light vanish from her mother's eyes. ]

Guess you're shit out of luck. [ That taunt worth it, even as each word burns its way past her vocal cords.

Scarlett swallows a cry as her head snaps back, Dmitri dragging her up to her feet by her hair, the brunette forcing him to drag her every step of the way as she struggles against his hold on her. Not to get away. No, it's far too late for that and he'd catch up to her before she could get more than ten feet, but to keep him from realizing what she's clutching in her hand as he drags her through her mother's blood. ]

I still have you.

[ A smile pulls its way across her lips, a glint of triumph shining in her eyes, Dmitri's awareness of her shift in mood coming too late as with a final surge of energy she twists free from his grip. There is no second guessing, just her mother's last words playing in her head as the blade slides beneath her ribcage. Blood spilling from the corner of her mouth as she wheezes out a barely audible laugh. ]

Y'sure 'bout that?

[ She doesn't feel the jarring of her body as her knees hit the rock. Dmitri's face filled with rage, blurring before her as darkness begins to encroach on her vision. His bellow sounds distant even as it fills the cavernous room, the Vampire rushing towards her with bared fangs just as her body pitches forward, driving the knife deeper as she ceases to see, hear or feel anything at all. ]

And If there's one thing I don't believe in, it's you...

[ While others are perhaps, understandably distressed about the current state of events. There is at least one who seems to be acting like it's business as usual in Beacon. Scarlett is rarely if ever seen anywhere near the tombstone bearing the Van Helsing name. In fact, for as long as its around, she can usually be found hacking away at the brush with a small handaxe until the beginnings of what looks like a path that cuts through the trees, away from the bonfire starts to form. It's a tedious job and slow going with crappy tools to work with but she finds herself only too grateful for something to occupy her time while others are dealing with the deaths they're probably not ready to have shared with everyone here.

As for Scarlett? If she's bothered by what's going on, it doesn't show. In fact, if you didn't know she had one out there, you'd be forgiven for thinking she must have been one of the only ones to have come out of this unscathed. She's still about as friendly as she ever is, not going out of her way to make nice but when she's not working on Mary's 'pathway of stars' ~~shut up~~, she can generally be found walking the treeline, looking for any sign of movement beyond the perimeter of the township, or even taking a drink at the Invincible.

That's not to say she hasn't gone to see the graves for herself but as to whether she'll let on if she's seen yours or not? Sometimes Scarlett can be blunt and nosy to the point of painful and other times? She likes to keep what she knows to herself. You never know when that stuff might come in handy. ]

( ➻ this is the easy part )

⟪ To a woman of the Faith such as herself, the giving of offerings is no strange urge –– still, their resources are limited, and the dead are… the dead are walking and in need of food and drink and other such things, and they need them in their hands, and not on their stones and shrines and tombs. Fire is limited, too, so she cannot do what she longs to do and burn her offerings, as she should.

Still, it won’t do, to leave the deaths unremembered, uncelebrated, or the loss in their worlds unacknowledged. So offerings need be made, in both senses of the word, and this is what Melisandre can be found doing through the week: making offerings.

On different days, she can be found in the tavern, at a table off to the site, writing prayers and things in strange languages on paper found at the shop, and later folding them into the shape of fire, or by the bonfire, making wreaths of herbs and plants, of which they have plenty and in abundance, and in the church, sitting among the pews with her needle and thread (scavenged from on layer of the dress she arrived in), embroidering flames on scraps of cloth.

She is willing to share, or teach, or listen to frustrated people who think all of this is a waste of time. If she is simply being watched, she’ll eventually ask ––⟫

Would you lend me a hand?

Edited 2019-07-12 17:38 (UTC)

( ➻ rest your heart )

⟪ While she had spent most of her time in the church during the first ten days, now that the cemetery is gracing this land with its presence, she seems once again drawn to the bonfire like a moth to flame. Her knees are pulled to her chest, she sits as close to the flame as she can without setting fire to herself, and her cheeks are pink with the heat of it. In a way, it makes her look more alive – the unnatural pallor is gone, if only for as long as she stays this close to it.⟫

Scripture is full of stories like these.

⟪ Even though her eyes are still glazed over, even though the fire is mirroring itself in them, she is addressing you. The lantern by her side is dimmer than it should be, a tribute to her habits, but her voice is the same as ever – warm, with the lilt of her accent and a hint of secrecy, even as she speaks frankly.⟫

It does not feel as if we are touching faith, though.

Edited 2019-07-12 17:33 (UTC)

( ➻ smoke to the skies )

⟪ Somewhere in the shadows, there is a small shrine. For anyone who has traversed the world and seen Essos, the red stone will be familiar as the same kind the Temples is build of –– and even without such knowledge, it’s still quickly evident whose gravesite this is. Is anyone else so dedicated to the colour? Still, it isn’t even knee height, and kept simple, with a plate for a name and a date, and a small hole for a stick of incense, as well as a place for a candle.

Melisandre of Asshai
114 BC - 300 AC
This is what anyone who leaves an offering will experience:⟫
She longs to see the sunrise. It is the only need she seems to feel, and it is near overpowering. The night had plagued her as it often does, its darkness whispering into her ear, the woman who screams for Melony, the man who calls her, cruelly, Lot Seven. The visions she is pondering – the boy with the wolf’s head, the agent of the Other, a name that sends a cold chill through her bones, and then the girl she will tell Jon Snow of, the one she thinks may be his sister.

But now, she craves light, true light, and it’s not what she says, of course, there is no need to admit to such a thing. Devan had asked if she wished to eat, she had said ‘yes’, even though she has no need, and by the time she’s left her room, slipped out without her guards for once, she’s already forgotten about the feigned hunger. We are not in Castle Black, now, we are atop the Wall, a hundred feet high in the air, and the snow is dancing like flakes of ash around her.

This may strike some as odd: her dress is thin, made for a warmer climate, and the scarf she merely carries around her waist. In some ways, she is aware of the cold, but she does not truly feel it – she feels warm, held by her god. Around her, the flakes seem to vanish, she is too warm to see them last. Still, dawn won’t quite come.

She thinks of the King, too – Stannis, she calls him in her mind, and her champion, and Azor Ahai reborn, and His Grace, wishes she’d seen him in the flame, recalls how he walked this part of the Wall with her, night after night, no guards, her waiting for the first sign of dawn that would allow her to rest, him not fighting a battle elsewhere.

Exhaustion is there, too, she’s not slept in a week, and her eyes almost fall close where she stands.

Then, the peace ends, too fast to register, even for her. Her torch goes first, and dawn has not yet broken, there is no light, and the disorientation gets her as quickly as the daggers do – darkness is what she has feared since she was a slave girl at the Temple, since before that, even, and she knows her attackers fear her. It makes the stabbing all the more brutal. Pain is everywhere – in her head, at her throat, exploding like the fire around her, fire she’d cast herself. Blood, too, she can feel it now, and she need no vision to know the daggers had done all the damage they’d needed to do. It’d come down on her, again and again, the work of the desperate.

Fire can’t save her. She’s fallen, red spreads around her, there’s blood in her mouth, too much to let prayer pass. There’d been no last word, only screaming that she herself hasn’t registered in the moment. Too fast to see, too fast to be saved, and still, there is no dawn. This is the last thing she thinks, as she feels cold for the first time in so, so many years: if only she could see the sun.
⟪ She won’t mind the intrusion as much, and she will treasure her offerings – gifts are a rarity to someone like her, and the idea that someone would spend a moment’s thought on her as a person means much.⟫

Edited 2019-07-12 17:45 (UTC)

( ➻ surprise me )

⟪ oh boy, what a ride! if there’s anything else you want (i’d be happy to draft up a specific starter, too!) please message me on discord at dracula#1035 or on plurk at nehelenia. i'm so excited about this event, i mean. look at how many things are already going wrong. ⟫

Edited 2019-07-12 17:35 (UTC)

Father, Son and Holy Ghost is just somebody's unholy hoax

[ Want to do something that doesn't easily fit in with what's here? Drop me a comment here to discuss if you like, hit me up on plurk (

brooklyn2181), Discord: Brooke#8775 or just tag into her OTA. I'm down for anything. ]

The Grave

[They appeared, well, over night, no pun intended. Ignis has been watching them with rapt attention from afar, wary to come closer. But when the others started fumbling around visiting their own shrines, Ignis moved to see if... he had his own. With the way he died, he suspected there was one. Unless Gladiolus took care of it made something himself? Ignis wouldn't blame him if he didn't- amidst the chaos, Ignis is glad that he's not here as well.

He finds his altar faster than he expected. Perhaps that pull inside of him led him to it. The writing on it is in simple, elegant cursive and there was a picture of his daggers carved underneath it-]
Scientia, Ignis
Royal Advisor and Retainer to the Chosen King of Lucis
February 7, 734 M.E. - July, 756 M.E

The Death (warning: spoilers for Ignis DLC and ffxv Ending)

[To anyone that makes the offering- the vision starts simply enough. Four men decided to split- Gladiolus, Ignis, and Prompto to go handle the civilians, Noctis to go and meet with the Leviathan. The three would join him the moment others are secured. Handling the civilians was easy. Reaching Noctis who was mid-battle with Astral was not. The serpent raged over Altissia, even more so now that the Empire decided to step in as well. To kill the Astral before Noctis gets his blessing. 'I should have gone with him' runs through Ignis' mind before the bridge he was crossing gets blown up and Ignis himself gets thrown off to the river's current.

He's not sure how he survived that. But he did. Ignis reaches the shore and the battle begins. One after the other, magitek infantry come and Ignis pushes his way through them- slicing them up as they came. Many, too many of them, but Ignis didn't stop; he just uses a potion, switches up his elements and blows up the place. The fights become a blur; more often than not Ignis catches himself staring at the tall beacon of light coming from the Altar; constantly he catches himself repeating in his head 'be safe' as his daggers make another magitek soldier implode. A man joins him on the journey- tall with white hair. Ravus, brother of the Oracle. The scene of them talking blur into a battle between them on the altar- Ravus full of rage and grief while The Oracle and the King lay still in the back. The scene blurs again and the tall man mourns his sister and the heaven's rain cover up his tears.

Then comes the Usurper- the robotic soldiers easily overpower him and knock him down. The offer to join him or float away with the rest of them. His answer is obvious. With a cruel laugh, Usurper crouching down and picking his King by the collar and lifting him, ready to slice his throat.

The Ring falls from Noctis' hand and rolls Ignis' way. Usurper doesn't notice because Ravus throws a dagger at him. There isn't even a second of hesitation in Ignis as he grabs it. It feels like he can hear the whispers of the Old Kings coming from it. A final warning that Ignis doesn't heed. And proceeds to put the Ring on.

There was silence; like a standstill in time. The Old Kings judging whether Ignis should even be granted powers in the first place. But soon enough, A King vouches his loyalty and verdict is passed. And it's then that the pain begins. Searing, seeping through flesh burning away at him from the inside out, replacing such basic thing as blood with power. It burns- it burns so much. Ignis feels like he will die on the spot, without a chance to fight the Usurper. But he doesn't- the Ring keeps him alive, eats at his vision until it completely burns away, along with the last sight of Noctis, lying on the cold stone. But- it feels he doesn't have to see more than this; all of his senses are focused on his enemy.

The fight is long and tenacious. Every move Ignis makes seems to rip at his muscles and flesh yet his power doesn't wane. He draws it from the Ring, more and more, until he completely repels Usurper. Until the guy leaves and lets Ignis walk over to his King and fall at his side. He can still feel his body burn, overheated from the power he received, but it doesn't hurt anymore. His vision is black, and he knows what comes next.

Slowly, he pulls the ring off from his ashen finger and lets it roll over, hand falling inches away from Noctis'-]

Forgive me...

[-are his last words, before everything fades into darkness.]

The Thank You

[It's needless to say that Ignis visited several shrines of people he met here. And having made the offerings and experiencing their deaths, he feels guilty to anyone that felt compelled to leave anything at his shrine. His death was... incredibly painful. Not something anyone should experience.

So he keeps an eye on the visitors of his shrine. Not because he wants to see who remembers him, but out of fear they might feel weak, tired and overall exhausted. And whenever a person seems to stumble away in a daze from his shrine, Ignis will walk over to steady them on their feet and help them sit down.]

Here, this should help... [Ignis says quietly, putting a warm mug with tea in their hands, his voice laced with guilt.]

Wildcard

[ooc: If there's anything specific you want to play from the vision (e.g. the Prophecy Ignis witnessed (I had to cut it out because the death scene is long enough)), hit me up. Or for anything else, really! If you wanna plot, add me

WindsongWitch ]

( gene'll be actively checkin' on folks should they show signs of shock or upset. this ain't a matter of blood an' bone but one of the soul, an' he's as attentive to that as he is to all manner of physical hurts.

should your character appear to need any comfortin' at all, he'll be there with a cup of some hot liquid appropriate to 'em (hot chocolate for the youths, coffee or hot soup for everyone else) an' he'll push it into their hands an' take up a place beside them.

this goes doubly for anyone puttin' themselves to work to destroy their grave. )

Hey. You got a minute?

Edited 2019-07-12 18:23 (UTC)

( he spends a lotta time here. more than he should, strictly speakin', but he learns right quick not to leave an offerin' or even to pray. it's a hard instinct to shake, because his first thought is always for a prayer of the fallen, but. he does it.

he still takes it as a duty, to memorize things. the names, the graves. it ain't a job that falls to a medical man, but he's been helpin' the dead longer than he's been one himself. he'll remember.

should he be seen near your character's grave, he'll give them a small smile. should they be a stranger to him; )

Sorry to intrude. Weren't plannin' on leavin' an offerin', your death's your business. Just passin' by.

( and should they be a friend, he'll reach out and touch their shoulder gently — )

Hey. Y'all right?

↬

( and should gene spot anybody near his own grave, he'll give them a nod. )

If'n you wanna know, I'll tell you plain how I died. Ain't no point in livin' it, but I don't mind if you want to anyhow.

Edited 2019-07-12 19:10 (UTC)

( you can find him in the church among the pews. head bowed, hands clasped. he may be silent, or he may be at prayer, in which case he'd be sayin' something like,

may the souls of all the departed through the mercy of god find peace in their own way, and may their suffering be eased through the grace of our lord jesus christ. amen.

if your character is a religious sort an' sits on next to him, he might reach for their hand an' continue the prayers. if they interrupt him somehow, he'll finish whichever prayer he'd started an' then glance up to pay them mind.

if they sneak up on him an' scare the livin' hell outta him, they might get him to go on' and cuss right here in this holy place. )

Edited 2019-07-12 18:41 (UTC)

▶ 01. THE END IS THE BEGINNING?

Well, that's quite the sight.

( he's standing in front of a tombstone that, if he's honest, sends a thrum of fear through his body. up until now, he'd been rather blase about this whole death thing because he's been able to separate himself from the whole ordeal. he remembers the pain and the blood, the faces of his auntie and the voices swirling around.

but, he remembers little else. and now, here he is staring at the evidence of his mortality. it's jarring. he doesn't like it. he wants a drink. )

Ambrose Spellman
1929-2019
Loved and Missed.

( he reads the inscription a few times and tries to be force himself into something lighter, less dour. he doesn't want to seem too affected when the truth is that he's very, very affected. )

Couldn't write me a little more about me, eh? The etcher must have been paying by the letter. ( he sighs, shoulder slumping. try as he might, he can't avoid thinking about what happened.

he remembers it vividly still, about his aunt sneaking him in the pieces of build a skeleton key. auntie hilda, so much smarter than people gave her credit for. he remembers using it to throw open the doors to the cell and he remembers running. the sound of his feet slapping against the floor is loud in his ears.

he remembers making it to the front door of the academy of unseen arts and throwing open the doors. and there they were. witch hunters. witch hunters with the faces of angels and all ambrose could do was scream. warn everyone else despite the fact that he'd spent the last several days locked and tortured.

warn them and hope that they escaped. he'd tried to use magic, to fight but they were much more powerful than typical witch hunters and they'd taken him apart. there was so much blood. his prison jumpsuit was splattered with it and he remembers making it to the chapel and falling. he remembers his aunt again, trying to save him.

he remembers it being futile. dying, he recalls, had been so, so painful. the blood pouring from his body, lodged in his throat, and pouring out in dangerous amounts.

he hadn't even been able to say goodbye. )

▶ 02. NOT TODAY, SATAN.

( he doesn't stay at the sight of the graves for long. he's never really thought himself afraid of death but that doesn't mean he wants to witness something so personal and private multiple times over.

instead, he retreats to the inn, to the bar and props himself up there, making quick work of the drinks the bartender put in front of him.

he wasn't drunk, not yet, but he planned on getting there. what else was there for a dead man to do in a place like this? it was drinking or sex to forget and he hadn't yet figured out if the latter was even plausible in the afterlife. )

▶ 03. WILDCARD.

( i'm down for almost anything so throw it at me. feel free to hmu at

spoonishly. )

( ooc; the short version is 'sniping spawncampers fucking suck, bro.' for anyone interested in seeing ghosts, refer to the first half of the comment. i was thinking about limiting it, but you know what, go nuts. if you just want the death skip to the second half.

a battlefield cross is the only thing to mark this grave, the helmet emblazoned with a red medic's insignia. there are a set of dogtags tangled around the stock of the gun that have the name E. P. HICKS inscribed on them. )

(ghosts)

It's awareness of the cold what creeps on in first. The air's suffused with chill. It sinks into your bones, wraps around them and drags you down into an almost compulsory awareness of it. Your fingers are numb, and blowing on them just seems to make them slick with condensation rather'n'any real shade of warmer. Your hands stay the rough, weathered red of early onset frostbite, and you know you ought to be fighting fit before the call comes up. You tap out a cigarette, instead, and keep your hand cupped around the match longer than you need to light it.

It's early morning, else you wouldn't risk the glow. Snow's fallin' harder than you'd like. Nearby there's a panzer tank still faintly smoldering run off the road. Half your boys are in ditches, the other half in the sorriest excuse for foxholes you've seen yet in this war, scraped a couple feet at best down into the frozen ground. You're sittin' back from their line, crouched against the low retaining wall of a building what's been destroyed just to watch, and find some space to breathe. The 2nd Panzer Division ain't done with you yet, an' you know they just got reinforcements in the shape of an artillery division that just broke past the 89th Recon. The air's too cold to smell like rot, and anyhow the GRS has come on through an' mostly pulled the dead outta sight. But they can't bury them when the ground's froze with this damn nor'easterly wind that lances through every layer you're wearing and flays your bones. Reggie says they just stacked them like frozen firewood in the church at Lierneux.

Anger builds. It builds, an' builds, an' crashes directionless against the beachhead of your calm. You're used to fighting it down. Good at it, now. No point in givin' in. Not a soul alive it'd bring succor to.

"Genie."

Reggie's voice, clarion-bright. It cuts through that schism of anger, gives you an anchor-point against it. You close your eyes, take another drag. When you open them, your friend's leaning against another husked-out wall a short distance away. Reggie's a handsome fella, dark-skinned and lean with a smile that could bring the gods to their knees. He's in civvies, an' he don't seem all that fussed by the cold. Damn New Yorkers, you think to yourself, but there's pain threaded through the thought like ivy in old brick.

You ain't spoken yet today. Ain't sure you can. Yesterday was hard and you're still wearin' the blood of good men. But you give him an acknowledging nod. I'm here. I'm with you. and he gets it. He always does.

"Can't wait for that Alabama sunshine, huh?" Reggie says. His voice is soft an' gentle but there's a playfulness to it, obscured by his accent that can't decide if it's British or Brooklyn. He grew up with one, compounded it with the other, ended up with somethin' not quite either. But he can sound Parisian at the drop of a hat an' knows some six languages besides. You never realized how suited he was for spying until he was in the thick of it. "You better enjoy it for both of us, kid." He ain't never wistful, you know Reggie'd never put that on you. It's just an earnest, fervent wish. Live.

"My pals at the SOE thinks the end's coming, and Aveline — well, ask her yourself, she was in Bauvenn last time I checked in with her. But lord, Genie, you should see the mess of Germany right now. Hitler's losing his goddamn mind. I really think losing Rommel was the tipping point, you know?" Reggie stands up, comes over. Sits down again. The smoke of the cigarette seems to pass right through him. "And the Russians just liberated another camp in Budapest."

Good news. It's good news, an' you should be glad to hear it. But you can't shake this pervasive sense of dread that settled in the pit of your gut around 0300 and ain't yet left you. You ain't even had the heart to bring yourself to eat somethin', even though you know you should. You need to be ready. Can't help your boys if you can't hardly function. Determination cracks the veneer of malaise, and you pull out a tin of ham, prising open the top with the edge of your knife. You've been still so long the snow shakes off your shoulders. "You hear anything about Albert?" you ask at length. You can taste blood on lips cracked in the cold as you stab a piece of gelatinous ham and bite it off the tip of the knife.

Reggie exhales. Shakes his head. "Sorry, Genie. You know how he is. Only damn one of you Hicks boys that can hide from me."

There's a stab of sorrow that lands alongside the cold. Ain't nobody heard from Al now in weeks, it's startin' to wear you down. "It's all right, Reg'. You tried, an' I appreciate it mightily."

"Anything for my best guy," Reggie says fondly. He stands up, makes a show of stretching out his legs. "Anyway, kid. I'm gonna go scout the Salm. 9th Panzer's still out here somewhere, it's driving me nuts." He tips his hand in a salute and wanders off, passing through the retaining wall without a word. You watch him go, and then turn your attention back to the road.

(/ghosts)

(death)

Lou's throwin' snowballs, and Malachi ain't havin' none of it. You can hear the clear refrain of idiot, you want the S.S to roll up while you're playin' with your goddamn dick in the snow? You ain't got the sense God gave baby bunnies, Lawrence! and you catch the moment that Lou hits Malachi straight up in the face with a ball of it and crows with triumph.

It's short-lived. The scream of the first mortar goes up. You ain't sure who takes up the bawl but someone yells it, incoming! The boys scatter, you try to track them in the chaos so you know where to look for the injured. But that first shell hits harmless, throws up shrapnel and steam on its impact. You should be relieved, but you ain't. That dread just won't quit. Lord, not today, don't take any of my boys today—

Another shell thuds against the earth. Another. You can hear Ginny yelling who taught these fuckers how to aim, the Goddamn 2nd Infantry? and a bunch of fellas laughing with nervous, fitful energy.

And then it goes up. That frantic call, you ain't even sure whose throat it gets torn out of but you hear medic hollered into the ether and you're up. The snow an' all the detritus kicked up by the shells makes it hard to orient, but the call keeps on and you run towards it.

First time you ran into danger, your hands shook so bad you could barely dress a wound. Now, fear's an old thing. Dead and decayed beneath the rooted bones of your resolve. You make it. Someone's grabbed Malachi and pulled him down into a foxhole, and you skid on your knees on the dirt and baseball slide into the damn thing with a hand on your helmet.

Malachi is cussing a blue streak and tryin' to fight Jimmy straight-up offa him. But once you're there, he swings his attention to you like a bull spottin' a red flag.

"I'm fuckin'— fine, Doc," Malachi says through gritted teeth. He ain't even let go of his rifle yet. You give Jimmy a look, and he snatches the rifle away when Malachi's distracted with you.

"You go on an' let me see, Mal—" you says gently, ears ringing hard. "Go on, you know I'm just doin' my job. How many purple hearts is this, now?"

"Too fuckin' many! What am I, some kind of goddamn magnet? Fuck! I'm sick of these cocksuckers!" There's blood on his uniform, but it ain't anywhere vital. You rip open his jacket and feel along his chest for the slick spot. No blood on the mouth yet. No laboured breathing that you can tell. Lord, it might actually just be a flesh wound. You find the injury along his back, a hunk of shrapnel about the size of your fist embedded just above the shoulder blade. Ripped right through that coat. You can't pull it out. Right now it's stopping the bleeding, an' there's no telling how deep it is. He ain't going to like that much.

"We gotta get you back to the 51st. Come on, get up." You're already trying to steady him. There's a lull in the shells dropping, which means their mortars are reloading. You might not get another chance.

"I ain't leavin' this fucking foxhole, Doc!" Malachi growls out. "Just pull it out and slap a goddamn dressing on it. I'm shootin' me a Kraut an' I'm gonna nail the bastard's balls on my fucking mantle back home!"

You know he'll listen to you anyway, despite the protests. You peek over the edge of the foxhole, straighten your helmet. Then you stand up, and —

— And you wake on a boat and the soft sway of water, and —

(/death)

Edited 2019-07-12 20:01 (UTC)

grave; believe me darling the stars were made for falling;

[It's a terribly simple memorial. Almost insultingly so, frankly: a small headstone with one name and two dates carved on it: R Lutece, 1871 - 1909. Two candles are set atop it, one all but burnt down, the other standing tall and strong. Occasionally the former's flame will stutter, but it refuses to go out, no matter what breeze picks up through the air.

Maybe you leave it at that. But if not . . .

You're in a building. A home. A place that's loved, filled to the brim with books and paintings, worn couches and wooden floors-- and then, further back, even footsteps as you head to your laboratory, with him at your side. He's so neatly dressed, his red hair perfectly set in place, his blue eyes amused as he listens to you argue. You're picking a fight with him over something stupid and pointless, one of those yes-I-did no-you-didn't things that don't matter, that you love because no one else ever, ever keeps up the way he does.

You keep it up as you reach the machine. An enormous thing, so big it goes from one floor into another, crashing through the ceiling in a contained sort of haphazardness. Tap the buttons and pull the lever, your fingers flying over the familiar controls, your attention still caught by him (always, always, you love him so much, you adore him, you'd do anything for him, you'd give him the world, you can't imagine a life without him). The machine roars to life, and that's your first hint. It shouldn't make that noise. It shouldn't-- you tear your gaze away, and it sounds wrong, it sounds labored, gears grinding awfully and wires surging with voltage they were never meant to handle, crackling to life, except it's wrong wrong wrong, it's lightning sparking everywhere, bathing you both in blue light, glass beakers shattering all around you, your teeth buzzing and the hair on your arms standing as it surges in power, and you look over at him, and--

--you know, in that moment, that there's nothing you can do. There's no point to running. You have seconds, if that, and you hate it. You never once thought you would die, not really, not the way others do, you're too smart for that, you're too brilliant, blazing bright burning, utterly immortal, and yet somehow, impossibly, here you are. You take his hand, and it feels so good in yours. Warm and large, his fingers wrapping tight around yours.

It's not fair. You tore him from another world and you've gotten so little time with him, it's not fair, you saved him, it's not fair, you've only spent a handful of years together (and it's despair but it's fury, it's rage, it's not fair and nor is life but you've spent all your years making things fair, and he can't be torn from your side, not yet, not when there's still so much left--)

"Do you have any regrets?" he asks, and there's something terrible about the forced cheer in his tone. His mouth is turned upright, and there's such love in his gaze as he looks down at you.

"Don't be silly," you say, and turn in towards him, into him, even as the machine roars and screams. "Of course I do."

And then there's a noise louder than anything, and an agony that's so bright, so embittering, so awful and terrifying and no--]

bonfire; now that existence is on the wake let's see what we can make;

[It's awful, working without light. Someone ought to fix that. Someone ought to fix a lot of things here, actually, starting from the lack of light and ending in the lack of anything scientific. It means she's forced to socialize if she wants to get any work done, sitting at the bonfire instead of locked away in her room. She's bent over something, but though you'd be forgiven for thinking it formulas, it's not.

It's a drawing.

A portrait, more specifically. It's of a young man, neatly combed hair and a faint smile. It's in pencil, so it's impossible to see eye and hair color, but he does bear a passing resemblance to her. She's really very good, it seems; not, perhaps, whimsical or particularly artistic, but on a technical level, she gets the job done.

But she's more than a little protective of it. She stiffens if someone sits too close, moving to flip to another page.]

wildcard;

[You know what to do.]

[ The air is hot and sticky, a humidity thick with the scent of lush jungle and plant life, sweat beading down the back of his neck as birds call far behind them, below them. At the edge of a cliff and a disadvantage Nate (for once) knows better than to push his luck, doing his best to defuse the volatility.

He thought he'd talked them down.

Foolishly, perhaps, but negotiations have never been Nate's strong suit and the best he is capable of doing is providing a genuine, honest case for their lives - for Sam's life. More than anything he wants this over with, wants to loosen the noose around his brother's neck and pay his debt for him after everything Sam suffered in prison. Fifteen years behind bars, and God, Nate owes him. He owes him everything.

Fifteen years since he's seen Rafe Adler in person, and it has to be at gunpoint. The mercenaries behind him are vigilant, their leader - Nadine, and Christ she can throw a punch - impassive and tense, waiting. Impatient. Nate knows he and Sam have been a thorn in their collective sides since the grift at the auction and she would like nothing better than to throw them off of the nearest outcrop, but Rafe is wallowing in their helplessness and Nate knows it's deserved.

Sam interrupts him, tries to stop him from mentioning the debt, the prison break, the Butcher of Panama and his threat should Samuel Drake not retrieve the treasure in return for his liberty, and Rafe looks at him as though he's suddenly grown two heads. ]

What the Hell are you talking about, Nate? Hector Alcázar died in a shoot-out in Argentina like six months ago. I'm the one who got Samuel out.

[ It hits him slowly, confusion first. Looking to Sam while Sam refuses to look at him, and a broad smile stretches across Rafe's face as he realizes something that Nate doesn't - not yet. His tone shifts for the conversational and the words roll in ceaselessly as Nate stares, struck dumb. Numbed to his core he listens in stunned silence as what he knows is picked apart and he can barely hear Rafe for the sudden rushing of wind in his ears, blood or anger or both.

Sam wasn't in prison for fifteen years. It was thirteen. Thirteen, and two spent in Rafe's company, researching Henry Avery, keeping distance, never making contact. Never reaching out despite knowing where Nate was. Letting Nate think he was dead, feeding him some bullshit story about a drug lord and a break out that never happened but Nate was too stupid to check, didn't think to not trust his brother, the family he thought he failed a decade and a half ago.

He denies the story and Rafe shrugs, gesturing at Sam and his brother turns with that telltale face, the same hangdog expression he used to give Nate when they were kids, when he was trying to make up for something. "Nate-" he starts and the name feels foreign when Sam has only ever called him Nathan, and he pushes him away, suddenly feeling sick after everything he ran roughshod over to get them here. Somewhere beyond the pounding in his head, back in the conversation, Rafe laughs.

He had pushed Elena away for this. Pushed Sully away, so desperate to make amends for something that had never truly been his fault in the first place, and Nate only scrabbles his way back into forming sentences when Rafe lifts his gun in Sam's direction. Wanting nothing more than to clock his brother across the jaw he tries again, deciding he can beg Sam for a reason later, when they're still alive and kicking. Nate steps in. ]

Hey, you miss one clue, and you can kiss that treasure goodbye. You said it yourself; you keep running into dead ends. Why don't you face it, Rafe. You need us.

[ For one long, excruciating second Rafe seems to contemplate the offer, and Nate almost thinks he'll take it. The Colt lowers- ]

Yeah, you're right. You're half-right.

[ -and then trains on Nate. ]

I just need Sam.

[ It happens too quickly. Nate protests with an arm outstretched as that dispassionate gaze settles on him, Sam moves in without warning, the gun discharges. For the briefest of instants Nate shut his eyes in acceptance, expecting a bullet that never finds its mark. It clips Sam's shoulder as his brother darts between them and the sudden jerk, the impact, checks Nate in the chest hard. He falls back and the weightlessness is familiar even as his stomach lurches, like missing a step at the top of a stair.

The landscape around him rushes past in a blur of green before he can grab a hold of something, anything, and with a sickening sound his forehead cracks against the cliffside before everything goes dark. ]

[ The stone is a weighty sort of basalt, delicately chipped with the knapping still showing, the fine craftsmanship of a mason etching Celtic knotwork into the crossbars of the marker. It looks old, weathered, of another era several hundred years before this and it shows in the moss that fills the gaps of the decoration, green clinging to muted gray. The once-smooth edges are rough with rain and wind and the plinth - a sturdy thing that keeps the cross upright - bears an inscription as worn as the rest of it:

Nathan Drake
1976 - 2015
Sic ♦ Parvis ♦ Magna

Nothing beside remains. ]

Huh.

[ Hands on his hips Nate chews the inside of his cheek, thoughtful. A little surreal, sure. A little upsetting, on a level he is violently suppressing, wondering if his body will be found and if so, interred in Saint Louis Cemetery Number 1 off of Basin Street, somewhere between Benjamin Latrobe's final resting place and Nic Cage's gaudy pyramid. Barring that, washing up downriver, becoming another skeleton on an island fraught with dead pirates.

A fitting end for a thief. ]

That's a Hell of a thing.

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Page 1 of 72

EVENT LOG: GRAVES

Rosinante Donquixote | Open prompts within

Death

1. In Memoriam: at the grave

2. Elsewhere/wildcard

Daylight vis Lornlit | Original.

Scarlett Harker | Open Prompts Within

Grave & Death

melisandre 🔥 asoiaf 🔥open prompts below

Scarlett | OTA

offerings & arts & crafts

( ➻ this is the easy part )

storytelling & bonfire comforts

( ➻ rest your heart )

death

( ➻ smoke to the skies )

wildcard

( ➻ surprise me )

Wildcard

gene hicks | open prompts within

Ignis Scientia || Final Fantasy XV

bonfire and elsewhere;

cemetary;

church; you can take the catholic out of the war but...

ambrose spellman ( chilling adventures of sabrina ) ota

press f to pay respects; (also known as tl;dr, the tag)

Rosalind Lutece; OTA

nathan drake ♦ open prompts within

hodie mecvm eris in paradiso ♦ death

sic parvis magna ♦ the grave