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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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?"

They know what real-memory dreams feel like, and they know that one isn't even possible since there are no helicarriers or Russian bases in Beacon, but. The feelings remain. The fear that the Asset might ignore pleas to stop and kill people they care about. The visceral feeling of punching through someone's face, metal fingers bloody and gore-spattered. (That one probably happened at some point; that is such a vivid sense-memory that it had to, they just don't have the correct context. Probably in or related to the Russian base, since half the scenery came from there.)

"Writing it down. Helps. Figured that out when I started writing down memories." What else do they usually do, in their own room at Aziraphale and Crowley's. Not usually curl into the arm of the couch with their feet tucked up, but it feels nice now, safe, so whatever. "Paper folding. Music. Coffee or cocoa. Usual methods of calming down."

"Don't think I trust either of those drinks, but here, hold on--" Hopping to her feet, it's hardly a moment's duck into the kitchen before she's returning with folding paper. Four pieces each, and then with a few taps her tablet resumes churning out her standard 70s fare at a low volume.

"I don't know if a new one or something familiar would be better right now, but I'd start with a crane anyway."

"Familiar's better for nightmares." This is said with the certainty of someone who's experimented. Crane, it is.

Soldat takes their time with it. They could, at this point, make a crane in their sleep, in five seconds if there was ever a reason to do speed-origami. But that's not the point of folding paper. The point is to make each line exact and careful, to focus on the angles and the steps, and to get absorbed in it to give the brain a chance to settle itself down in the background. So they take their time. The crane, and then the owl, and then the fox.

And fifteen minutes later they can sit back against the couch arm and speak again. "Thank you, Misty."

"None needed, but you're welcome." She seems content, among her own small array of cranes. "Help any? You're sounding a little steadier."

Which is good. Relieving. She worries, Soldat

"Yeah, always does. Even just thinking about it, even if I don't have paper." Excellent coping method, Misty, good job. Which they say outright for her, in case she doesn't know: "I'm glad you taught me. That was good."

She's touched enough to look down, aw.

"Glad to help, huh? You were the one to ask about it, I'm just following along. It's a good quiet hobby, never too hard to manage. Which you...could use, I hadn't thought of it at the time."

Wider smile!

"Anyth8ng that helps, always, just lemme know. Any chance of sleep?"

Soldat considers, thinks of climbing the stairs and going back into the bedroom, laying down-- and the arm shudders a little. Too vulnerable. Still too much tension. "Not yet. You can, though. If you're tired. I'll just listen to music down here."

Down here, they can look up and see her, verify her safety and comfort. Though even upstairs, they can hear her. It could be enough. They wish, suddenly, that Sora and Crowley were here. Ellever and Eleven. More people from the dream. (Need to verify their safety, too. Have to leave to do that. Orders. There you two are. Orders. No orders right now, Asset.)

With a noncommittal little grunt, she shrugs, leaning back in her own chair. It's comfortable, and she is, of course, steadily reaching tired, so this quickly turns from a lean back into a whole-body curl.

"Nah. Fine here. Plenty happy, and it's no fun being stuck with yourself after bad dreams." Personal experience. Music is better than silence, but conversation is a league all its own.

They watch her a moment as she curls up there, silent, expressionless, while something turns around in their brain. Turns over a few times. Widows, the Asset says. Dugan and Gabe, the Sergeant says. Becca and Pa and Steve, Soldat thinks. There's a feeling that runs through all of them, and it's there, now. Verifying safety and comfort. The way she soothes and supports. The way she lets them soothe and support. Cooking and folding paper and dirt in the metal plates from her garden. Just. Misty.

It might be an uncomfortably long moment of silent staring, for Misty, while they put pieces together and finally find the right name for them. But Soldat finally breaks it themselves, with the somber but firm: "I love you, too."

Long is an accurate description; she waffles between comfortable and not. It's never a particularly comforting gesture on principle, but it is Soldat, who is both a comforting figure himself and possesses a certain body language easy to misinterpret if judged rashly.

...But she is tired, and readying herself to ask what warrants the focus when he beats her to it. And she melts, a little bit. Visibly softens, head to toe. All but a puddle in her chair.

She's actually at a loss for words, for a little stretch of her own.

"I - won't waste it, ever. Thank you so much, Soldat. I hardly know what to say."

EVENT LOG: THE NIGHT WE MET

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