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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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."

"You told me, first," they point out, head tilting a little, torn between a smile and a frown. It was the right thing to say, wasn't it? That's happy? They think that's happy. "Should've heard it back ages ago."

"Doesn't make this less of a moment for me. The opposite, actually - it might be more special for the wait." It's very happy, Soldat, worry not. "I'd have waited ages more, believe me, this is a great feeling. And it's not going anywhere. Not ever."

Hard to tell if this wakes her up or makes the lazy, warm allure of sleep all the more powerful. Hm.

They smile, just faintly, but it's warm. "Me, neither." Look, when Soldat attaches to someone, it's for life. And they're very attached, here.

They're gonna make an executive decision here, though, and err on the side of "sleepy Misty". She looks sleepy, and anyway, now they're feeling... shy. Or something. Not being looked at sounds nice. "Go to bed, Misty. I'm going to make myself a snack and make another attempt in a little while. You shouldn't have to lose sleep while I settle the rest of the way."

"Hmmmmmmmmm."

It wants to be argumentative, but turns up conceding for the lack of energy. It wants to be rallying, bracing for the sit-up and walk up stairs, but turns up resigned for the lack f energy. Sleep in chair. Yes good. Much sleep. Eyes are shutting.

"Don't say it just to be nice, real sleep, mister."

How could they have mistaken this feeling for anything else? Jesus. Seeing her settle in and shut her eyes right there in the chair, right in front of them, it's so big. Soldat eases up from the couch and pads over to tuck another blanket around her, lean over to pretty their lips to her forehead. "Sleep well, Misty."

They will indeed make themselves a snack, then settle into their own vigil on the couch until they wind up curling up there and sleeping across the coffee table from her. Not long, just another two hours or so, but it's enough.

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EVENT LOG: THE NIGHT WE MET

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