logsinthenight | EVENT LOG: THE NIGHT WE MET

EVENT LOG: THE NIGHT WE MET

characters: everyone.
location: the path from downtown beacon to the harbor; all over town.
date/time: february 16-21.
content: the forest spirits send off their friends to join the aurora. memory opals drop from the eerie green lights above.
warnings: n/a.

i had all and then most of you, some and now none of you.

For most of the day on February 16, all of the town's forest spirits can be found along the stretch of road between downtown and the harbor, clearly setting up for, uh, something. They're piling snow onto the pathway, creating a miles long sled trail that starts outside the Landmark Inn and ends at the very end of the harbor's dock. Not only that, but the forest spirits are also not super willing to explain what they're up to! They're busy, you lantern-havers.

By the time evening rolls around, the spirits have set up wooden railings alongside the snowy path, as well as a warming tent, hot chocolate booth, and announcer stand outside of the Landmark. Oh, and a starting banner for the race! It's dogsled time!

Throughout the event, Beacon's downtown and harbor areas will be completely overrun with forest spirits, all there to bear witness to this holiday celebration—this holiday is for them, though, not you weirdos with your naked faces. Point is, none of the spirits will be hostile at this time! They're more interested in interacting with each other than with Beacon's residents, though if pressed, a kind spirit might be willing to explain what's going on:

The aurora arrives in Beacon for about a week each year, and the forest spirits believe it to be "friends in the sky". The lights are old friends of theirs, it seems! And each night while the aurora shines above the town, the forest spirits send off a handful of friends to join the aurora! The spirits ready to join the aurora build sleds of their own and assemble mighty sled teams, sometimes comprised of dog spirits and sometimes... other stuff. Then, when the aurora is at its peak in the wee hours of the night, the sled teams will ride off one by one, racing down the snow-covered path all the way down to the harbor, where they'll finally rocket off the dock and out over the lake, picking up more and more speed as each team gallops wildly over the water before arcing up into the sky. Once the spirits are barely a speck, they'll hit the aurora and burst into a shower of light. Beautiful stuff!

See, since the aurora is made of light, forest spirits launched into it are killed on impact! Isn't that wonderful! The forest spirits seem to think so! What is death to a dead thing!

All of this information can be learned through handwaved/played-led interactions with the forest spirits during the event. They'll all be focused on saying goodbye to their friends and cheering them on as they stream through the sky, but they're happy to welcome lantern-havers to join in the celebrations. The hot chocolate is free and only tastes a little bit like mud, so. Enjoy!

•••
For the entire duration of the event, the aurora will dance in beautiful silence overhead, lighting up the whole town with its eerie green glow. Every so often, handfuls of opals will rain down like meteorites from the lights above, and these opals each contain the memory of someone currently in Beacon! They can be found all over town, landing on paths and atop buildings and maybe even rocketing straight through your ceiling to crash into your living room. Perhaps a forest spirit decided to hide some shiny rocks in your cereal box or under your pillow... Better hope the Postmaster General doesn't find your opals before you do, though. That spirits sure does love their rocks. Point is, who knows where the opals might turn up?

On that note, if you signed up for a random event, we'll be RNGing characters to receive these random events throughout the event! The event may happen in response to a toplevel on this event log, or we might turn up in your IC inbox... 👀 These events will be entirely random, meaning we could dole out any number of them at any time, so it'll be a fun surprise for all of us.

If you missed signups and would still like to toss your name in the ring, go right ahead! Signups will remain open throughout the event, though we can't promise everyone who signs up will get something.

And finally... Each day, we'll post a list of the forest spirits joining the aurora! What, did you want to know in advance? The forest spirits have never been a particularly organized bunch, so they're winging this—which means more surprises for you. :)

Enjoy the races and the lights and the opals, residents of Beacon, and remember: WHAT IS DEATH TO A DEAD THING!

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Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"I'd be happy to take them off your hands, thank you." Saved her a meal's worth of effort at least, which makes up for any potential finger-wagging effort on her behalf would rouse, had that been his intention. The room is presented with a flourish; it's not shabby for a room only intermittently occupied, and on short notice.

Really, it's a means of killing time. Tucking in of any sort is both unnecessary and unwise, but she would - prefer to see him settled before she leaves. Something like comfort, that would be nice. "Rest for you. If something playing quietly downstairs might help, this is your last chance to say so."

The previously established 'don't enter spontaneously on account of nightmares' rule has held.

Soldat's slept here before. It's almost as comforting and safe a space as their own room at Aziraphale and Crowley's place, if less decorated with their own actual belongings. (Maybe should do somethin' about that, if you're gonna keep nappin' here. Mmm. Maybe. Bring over a couple of Daylight's paper flowers. One of the more colorful quilts. Owl. Misty would probably laugh. Owl. Okay, okay, fine. I didn't even know you knew that word.) Apparently they're also bringing the knitted Night Market forest spirit plushie with the owl head.

They set their lantern, with Owl Friend's little charm still dangling from the open shutters, on the bedside table and look around. "Music will be. Nice. Just you is fine too, though. I like hearing someone around." And their hearing means they can pick up her breathing from the next room over, and that's soothing enough.

"I'll play it quiet, then, just ambient. Probably turn it off if I turn in, but we'll cross that bridge when we come to it. You tuck in, and I'll see you - whenever I next see you, we'll overlap enough."

Just looking for a mild sign he won't be pacing or curled up on the floor again once she's gone, really.

"That's fine. I can still hear you. That's enough." They aren't really that secretive about their range of hearing, especially not with Misty.

It takes them a long minute of watching her sidelong to figure out why she's still lingering, though. Is she worried? Thinks they're going to do something? "I'm okay," they finally say, a little uncertainly, but mostly because they're not sure if that's what she wants.

"Just want to be sure, ah - heh."

She fully acknowledges that it's weird, but damn if she doesn't want to be certain he'll really rest. There was a lot of beating-oneself-up she just heard, after all.

"I'll get out of your hair. G'night."

So that was what she wanted. Soldat makes sure to say again, "I'm okay. Just worn out. Promise. I'll still be here tomorrow."

They even ease down to sit on the edge of the bed, though don't make any moves to do anything else until she's shut the door behind her.

She nods, once, silently, and slips back into the hall.

As promised, she busies herself - his jazz playing at a low volume. Sandwich to eat, dishes to do, a round of sweeping. It isn't enough to tire her at this hour, so she'll be curled in an armchair trying to work out solitaire.

It feels nobler to imagine it a vigil.

Soldat does turn in shortly after she heads downstairs, after locking the door and putting a chair against the knob. It's nothing against Misty, she's safe, but they feel like 200% safer with each barrier between them and the outside world when sleeping. Even objectively when there's an angel and demon in the house, or a powerful witch who's said she loves you, it still helps.

They get a solid three hours before exhausted sleep morphs into dreaming which, after the tension of the day (week?) shortly morphs into darker dreaming. They don't wake up screaming-- small mercy, that-- but they do roll out of bed with a thump, knife in one hand, gun in another, breathing hard and momentarily confused as to where they are, dream of punching through dozens of familiar faces still clinging to their brain.

By then, she'd been dozing in her chair herself. Far from spent, but keeping still and quietly focused for that long will do one in. The thump startles her, and she's on her feet and on the third stair before she remembers - gun. There's an obvious accident that can be sidestepped. Not one step further. He'll hear.

"You alright in there? Soldat?"

The steps were-- ominous and distorted, didn't fit the setting of the dream, and Soldat has themselves wedged into a corner before the voice registers.

This is the room in Misty's cabin. This is. Not the base in Russia. That's Misty. Misty, whose face is probably not punched in, if she's speaking and asking if they're okay.

But they have to make sure. There's no sound to show they're moving until the chair is pulled from the door and it opens, and they're frantically looking down and around for her face. Whole and unpunched and alive and well. The gun is still in one hand, though it's pointed at the floor, and they've still got most of their clothes on-- shirt, jeans, socks. Just missing their shoes. Also, messy bedhair, half out of the tie they'd absently pulled it back with sometime yesterday.

And there her unpunched self is perched on the stairway, lit up by her lantern, looking concerned but deliberately calm. Not moving. Caught wise to that much.

"Hey, easy, 's me. I'm real, and we're both alright. Nothing amiss."

She's okay. She's okay. Soldat slumps a little against the door frame, scrubs the non-gun-holding-hand (the metal one, but eh, they're used to it) over their face, and shuts their eyes briefly. "Sorry. Dreams."

A relief, though she'll keep rooted to place just a moment more. Let the dust settle. "It's fine, just worried me for a minute there. You okay?"

Shaky, still worn out, but knowing from long experience now that sleep isn't gonna happen any time soon. It's still early... ish... so it's maybe possible they'll get another hour or two, before it's time for the 0500 patrol. Especially if they can scribble the dream down to get it out of their head.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'll be--" Oh, hell. There's no notebooks here. They've got one piece of paper in a knife sheath, still set by the bed, but that's not gonna be enough. (And it's not in a notebook. That's not procedure. Stuff it in the back of a notebook later? Maybe. Maybe.) "Do you have paper. Not origami paper. Writing paper."

Stevie had recommended very strongly, shortly before what Misty hadn't realized would be more final days of her life, that she journal. She's never been brave enough to stick out an attempt, but she's prepared always for another round.

And she makes grocery lists. Tiny maps. Come on Soldat, she isn't living like a heathen.

"Yeah, back of the junk drawer in the kitchen," she answers, easily. "Do yiu want me to bring you some? And a...pen, or anything?"

Honestly, Soldat doesn't know how normal people live, with shopping lists and doodles and shit. They keep things like that in their head, and only bother to write down things they're afraid of forgetting, or things the they find desperately need to come out of their head. And those are both very new activities, pretty much as of this month.

"Got those, just. Not enough paper." They disappear back into the bedroom long enough to collect the knife sheath with the pen in it, and to put away the gun, then come back out and start coming down the stairs.

That's about when they realize the hour and frown, pausing halfway down the stairs. "Why are you still awake, Misty. You should be sleeping."

Resolving to start leaving leaflets in the room for occasions like these, she's focused enough it takes a moment to register he's spoken. There's little by way of excuse. A shrug. "Keeping an eye on things, I don't know. Night took a weird turn, felt better knowing I was keeping eyes out for anything."

Which - proved kind of correct. No danger, but something did indeed happen.

"You just woke up, you can't possibly be fretting this early."

"I can fret whenever I want to." What does time of day have to do with it. The idea of Misty sitting up, keeping vigil while they slept, though, is. Kind of sweet. It's not as if she was staring at them, so it can't make them uncomfortable. Just waiting. Just in case.

It's not enough to bring an actual smile, they're still too jittery, but they do kind of pause next to her and brush a couple fingertips over the edges of her hair. Then they pad, still shoeless, to the kitchen in search of that paper.

"Not when you're tired you can't. Got rest to prioritize above me." This is of course tongue in cheek, as she's well acquainted with the inevitability of failing to make it stick. It's a funny little of gesture of his, but a very real gesture, and that in itself is sort of touching. Good, to know the effort is appreciated.

"Think you'll manage anything after this, or is the night as good as over on that front?"

"Don't know yet." Maybe. If they're very lucky maybe. And writing down the nightmare and whatever else is going through their head helps. It might. They rummage until they find the little pad of paper. Not as big as a notebook, but it has some heft to it. Good enough. "Usually can't sleep again not. But it's earlier than usual."

It's one major reason they split their sleep into two pieces. Soldat returns to the living room to wedge themselves into one corner of the couch, little pad of paper on the arm, the pencil in the metal hand.

"Fingers are crossed for you, I guess." Sincerely. He needs sleep, this guy. Supersoldiering and his baseline level of activity demand a lot. To say nothing of the mental strain, easily exacerbated by poor sleep she would imagine.

She resettles into her armchair, sighing. "I'll hush while you do it."

Before starting, they do look over at her briefly, actually at her, eye contact and everything. "Sorry, Misty. Gotta. Gotta write it down. New protocols. Helps clear out the brain a little."

Then it's back to the paper, and some very hasty, hard-pressing writing. Several pages worth. One reason they use a pencil, besides it fitting better in their knife sheath, is it's less likely to wind tearing through the page. Writing with the flesh hand isn't as clear, but the metal one is even stronger, so. Pencil. Also, it's very satisfying to trim the tips with a knife to get more lead.

The frantic pace finally slows after about three pages, front and back, and five minutes or so. Then they set the pencil down very carefully on the coffee table.

"No, no, I understand. Do what you need." He's no bother, never any bother. Hardly demanding to spend a minute idly tapping at her tablet or peering through windows. Important he do what need be done.

And it's quicker than she'd have thought, despite greater output. Maybe worrying, maybe not. It's down, at least.

"Feel any better?"

Better. Maybe. Not quite to baseline yet, but that's not what she asked. They nod a little, and carefully tear the pages out of her pad of paper, then also the page under the last because pencil or not, the gouges of what they wrote are still there.

Then they set the pages down on the coffee table next to the pencil. If she wants to read them, she can. They're just barely legible for the first two pages, then clean up a little by the third. But if she'd rather not, that's fine, too. The option is there.

She certainly does, but the movement to peer at them is slow. Providing time for him to stop her, if she's not intended to do this. No gesture or word comes, and so she reads.

And it's. Terrible. Abysmally sad, and horrific, and--

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Just a dream. Nothing like that's coming to pass. Do you need anything?"

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