Player Plot: Remember Me

[notthatjason]

characters: Jason Grace & OPEN
location: (1) Harbor then (2) School
date/time: May 15 - 17
content: A small memorial event for those lost to the flood. Include a lantern/boat launch followed by a re-dedication of the Wall for the Remembered, now located in the school.
warnings: Likely discussions of loss/death what is death to a dead thing


1. Harbor
A few days after his network post, Jason can be found down at the harbor. Those that were here in September will definitely recognize it as a very similar set up to what Rastus had going when they did the memorial service then. He doesn’t have glowing stones, but he did bring down two torches from the bonfire and has rigged up a kind of tiki torch situation to light up the area for crafting. He has plenty of paper to craft into lanterns and boats. He’s made a few for those that might struggle, but there are plenty of supplies if you want to take the time to craft your own. There’s also other basic craft supplies -- markers, scissors, tape, and the like -- for making the boats or lanterns more decorated or personalized.

Jason encourages anyone who shows up to mourn or celebrate in their own way. This is intended as a way to honor the dead and missing, but if you don’t want to launch a boat you don’t have to -- perhaps you have another ceremony in mind.

2. School
After several boats have been launched, Jason will pick up one of the torches he brought to the harbor and lead whoever is around to the school. In the end, this seemed like the more accessible of the two locations he had debated. Prior to the memorial, Jason had spent some time sprucing up one of the classrooms and relocating the remains of The Wall for the Remembered, pictures and names moved onto a newly painted tree -- very similar to the one that used to reside in Town Hall.

Inside the classroom, there is one table set up with paints if people want to add names of those they just launched boats for -- Jason didn’t feel like it was right to add them all himself. There is a second table with snacks -- provided by the cafeteria spirit -- so the snacks are mostly what one might find in a school lunch, but hey there are pretty decent cookies. He’s also brought two torches to stay at the school: one in the entrance and one in the memorial room itself -- probably placed somewhere to give the wall the best light.

Once everyone is gathered, Jason will hold up the torch that he led everyone here with and speak: “Thank you all for helping with this and coming today. I can’t say I knew everyone who appeared in the most recent obituary shared with us, so I can’t exactly say anything personal here -- but I know that each loss has had an impact on at least one person in this room.” He pauses, a kind of moment of silence though he doesn’t say as such. After a moment he speaks again, “I know that our future here may be uncertain, but it’s important to take the time to remember those who have helped us even get this far. Tomorrow we can think about the future, but for right now let’s focus on those who are no longer with us -- whoever that may be for you.” He lowers the torch and steps away to give people their privacy and watch over the proceedings.

Comments

Rosinante | OTA

[callada]

How... how do boats

Rosinante is terrible at making boats.

He's tried, though, apparently. One crumpled, taped mess is in his hands, and a few more are at his feet. Somehow he's managed to cut himself in the process and so some of the tape and paper has gone into making a very makeshift bandage across the back of his hand and another wraps around a finger. Frustrated, he's about to give up, but instead turns to whoever is nearest. "Hey, are you any good at these? I never could get the hang of origami."

Launch

Successful or not, it doesn't much matter. As people cast their offerings out into the water, Rosinante stands at the edge where the lake just barely laps at the toes of his boots and watches them float off.

These people meant a lot to him. The first time they had lost this many was only a month or so after arrival and while he liked a number of them, he hadn't really come to know them the way he came to know these people that the little paper boats and lanterns now represent. Beacon will not be the same without them. So he breaks his customary silence and softly, just to himself, begins to sing.

((edit: yes, assume Beacon's auto-translate kicks in as always, who knows what language he'd be using tbh))

School

It's nice to see the memorial in place. He first checks to make sure the little tribute to Winters that he and Will had made sure to add has survived the flood. Most here never knew the man, which is itself a tragedy. Rosinante kneels down near where his name sits by the base of the memorial and places down a shotgun shell - hardly the bottle of booze he'd prefer to leave, but they're running low on supplies. It's still fitting in its own way, for he carries the man's shotgun across his back every time he ventures out into the woods.

He leaves other gifts by other names - some of those blue flowers Daylight planted in the greenhouse go to several of the lost, including Daylight himself but also Maes, as well as Peter and Riku. He leaves a shotglass for Ambrose - again, tragically empty, but it's the thought that counts as the dead can't exactly drink. Others get their own various tributes.

He doesn't have much to say, and won't be seeking people out. Closure is hard enough to find, he can't imagine bothering other people. But he'll stay in case anyone wants to talk. He sets up at one of the cafeteria tables with his star chart, and begins adding the names on the bulletin to several of the stars in the sky.

Boats

[worthallthis]

Are they any good. They only do this sort of thing once a day, almost, and usually with more complicated designs. It's been some combination of baffling (because Rosinante has very good fine motor control for writing and maps and fighting), amusing (because it's Rosinante making a mess of folding paper), and frustrating (because Rosinante doesn't like being offered help) watching him work out of the corner of their eye. Being asked is a relief.

"I can show you," Soldat offers. "Or just make you some if you would rather that." They put the final fold on their current one and offer it to him. It's pretty perfectly made.

A pause. "Also. I have a real bandage for your hand. If you want."

[callada]

"I'm fine," he grumbles at that second offer. "Just show me how you do it."

It certainly isn't a lack of coordination that's causing the hangups here - Rosinante is good and careful with his hands, as demonstrated not just with his aim but also at how carefully he does his makeup, how delicately he paints Mary's fingernails. But especially for those latter two, mistakes are easy enough to correct when his hand slips, and if he drops a brush or a bottle of nail polish, oh well.

But these scissors, they're too small for his hands and they're not his friends. He's just as prone to cutting himself by mistake as he is to toppling over. Dropping a paper boat and accidentally falling on it in the process of trying to pick it up has happened more than once tonight. And he doesn't have the calm he needs - he's frustrated, he's grieving, and he's angry at all of this happening again. What's worse, drowning, or brutal evisceration? It sounds like an obvious choice but there can't be anything pleasant about being smashed into the rocks by something twenty times your strength and size, and churned to bone by the silt-laden water. These people did not go peacefully and while that's in no way his own fault and he knows it, his reaction is always to think of how he could have done better to save them.

It's not boding well for the boats he's struggling to make in the meantime.

[worthallthis]

Whereas this is basically an extension of Soldat's primary self-comfort activity, so it's helping them stay calm just by doing it. They sympathize with the grief and the frustration-- they've had plenty of moments of anger and upset over all this; two of their favorite people disappeared in the flood, and many others they'd been starting for forge connections with, and it's all such a pointless loss of life-- but those moments are not right now.

First things first: "Put the scissors down." Because those do appear to be the biggest problem, here. The paper is thick enough that it's hard to cut yourself on it, and if they take it slow, he should hopefully be okay. "Just fold. I'll show you the steps for an easy one."

They collect two fresh pieces of paper, and offer one to Rosinante.

[callada]

Fine, then - he sets the scissors down, and takes the piece of paper, ready to observe. At least that's something he's good at, even though paying close attention these days has gotten harder than he'd like to admit. It's hard to focus when every few minutes his mind wanders to wanting cigarettes that simply don't seem to exist anymore.

But he's suffered through worse things than tobacco withdrawal, so he just pushes that particular itch aside for what must be the thirtieth time today, and watches.

"Last time I only had the patience to make two of these. They weren't very good then either," he admits. But he'd had a lot more mental clarity at the time. Those two boats had been for people long gone, after all.

[worthallthis]

"I didn't even know what they were for, last time," Soldat muses, making a fold, waiting for Rosinante to copy them before making another. Step by slow step, so Rosinante can see clearly how it's done, and can take his time, too. Slow means more accurate, and also more calming. "It was just soothing to do. When someone finally explained, I thought I'd be in trouble for doing them for the wrong reason. But no one seemed to mind. I made at least twenty, in the end."

Launch

[flangirl]

Pudding, likewise, watches the boats and lanterns - and her little crane, already struggling, as it should - go as the tide carries them. She hears the others around her, shuffles of clothing, little prayers, soft conversations.

She is utterly stunned when she hears words she knows.

They're soft, but the entire shore is quiet and subdued, and when you hear your own language (really hear it, not the strangeness of Beacon's eerily perfect translations) for the first time in weeks of a foreign land...

She just stares, from a few yards away, as Rosinante sings, her eyes wide, her mouth a little slack.

Oh god, it feels like being home.

One hand comes up to cover her mouth as he finishes, as she feels herself tearing up - really tearing up. She shakes her head, quickly wiping her third eye with the back of her wrist under her bangs, before approaching.

"Rosinante..." The tears are still warm and fresh in her two visible eyes, and hell, there are more coming, but she manages to keep them at bay in the third. She doesn't need another disaster this month. "That was beautiful."

[callada]

He becomes aware part of the way through that he has gained an audience, but carries on as if he hasn't noticed. He'd expected a few people might stop and listen, if only because singing isn't something he typically does, especially not where others might be around to hear. The fact that it's Pudding who listens and speaks up, of course, means it's probably not such a personal surprise, for they barely know each other, but rather that she is genuinely moved.

It's a little embarrassing all the same, but he hides that well enough as he turns and glances down at her before shrugging. "Ah... Thanks," he says as he casts his eyes back out over the lake, feeling even more awkward as he realizes she's not just moved but actually in tears. "It's not the sea, but it's as close as we're going to get here."

[flangirl]

There are so many things Pudding wants to say. I know that song, she wants to burst, to explode with it, to tell this stranger that she's from the same place. Are you a Marine?, she wants to ask, because while there are certainly pirates who sing the same, she knows it's a military dirge, has heard it on recording and never in person. (But what if he is? She's a pirate.) There are things she can't put to words, sounds that die in her throat, and she can't - cannot - decided what's safe.

Does she even want him to know?

How much of her old self does she want to let flounder under the waves and disintegrate into dark foreign waters with her tiny, ink-smeared crane?

She shakes her head a little. She doesn't have to decide now. Right? Like Soldat said...

"I'm - where I come from," she starts, trying to find words that are enough but not too much. "My country is an archipelago. We're surrounded by ocean, and so much of our commerce and travel is by ship. I just - " Her tears well up enough to blur her vision, and she stops to wipe at them with the wrists of her sleeves. This is so much. "I can't even figure out what I'm trying to say."

[callada]

When he looks down at her again, it's with a patient, sympathetic sort of frown, and a slow nod. Everyone has been through so much lately - the deaths, the destruction, all of it hit like one long rolling series of waves and he hasn't decided yet if they've actually retreated or if this is just another trough between peaks. Being here as long has he has, he's starting to suspect the latter is just always true any time things seem safe and quiet. They're just waiting to drown in the next crash.

"There's no hurry," he says initially, then continues, figuring the topic is a safe one. Better than worrying about the meaning of death here, and mourning the sudden loss of so many at once. "Lotta people here are from worlds where there's too much land, and too many people. It's a relief to meet another person who's used to the ocean being on all sides. A lake you can't even go out on safely just isn't the same."

Stone | OTA

[scarsolderthanyou]

Ia. Habor

It is a well-known fact among Raksura that the Aeriat have no artistic talent whatsoever. It might be related to their specific issues with eyesight, or it might be their hunter mentality. Whatever it is, Stone does not have the ability to make the little paper lanterns. Even the simplest folds he messes up, squinting down at them in irritation.

"What did I shitting do wrong this time?" he growls, holding up his misshapen lantern boat. He hasn't hurt himself, like Rosinante, but he's certainly no closer to managing this project.


Ib. Harbor

The whole singing thing had been Stone's idea, so hey, he might as well participate, right? As the little paper things start drifting off, he sings in the background-- and despite his quavery and clearly old speaking voice, his singing voice is clear and high for a man's. The song is wordless, just pure notes, slow and carrying something of grief to it. (Sounds something like this only without actual words...) It's the song his court would sing at the death of one or more of their members.

It's not good enough, not without harmonies and the Arbora and Aeriat to call and response at each other, but it'll have to do.


II. School

Stone doesn't know most of the people in the obituary except in passing: he has their scents memorized and can recognize the sound of their footsteps, but he didn't speak to a lot of them. There's only three or four he can say he really misses, and even then, his song was his grieving, not this.

So he comes here with the others, gives his work as part of the memorial rebuilding a critical once over, and hangs out near the back to let everyone else do their thing if they want. He's just keeping watch, but he's available with hugs if anyone seems to need one.

Ib

[rereremembered]

Fitz has heard far too little music since he died, so the haunting tune almost immediately gets his attention and he perches on a rock nearby to act as an audience. After listening a bit he hums along, a little below Stone's range but then coming up to harmonize. He tries a few notes with his steady, mid-range voice but then fades back out.

"That's quite nice," he says at a lull in the song. "What's it called?"

gah sorry for the wait!

[scarsolderthanyou]

Stone tilts his head over at Fitz, expression mild. "It's the song my colony sings when there's a death."

His expression goes a little sour. "Well, it's a poor rendition of it. Normally the Aeriat and Arbora sing the phrases back at each other. And I don't have individual melodies to add for each of the dead. And there's no harmony. But it's the best I can do."

Pudding | OTA

[flangirl]

1.

Pudding, as she told Jason, is happy to help others make boats and lanterns. Funerary ceremony is not something she's actually done herself before now, but origami, origami she knows. How many of her treats are decorated with sugary replicas, or real origami done with delicate layers of edible rice paper? So it's simple, easy, to teach, or to outright make a few for those who can't get it down or whose hands are too shaky to try. She's also folding up some little flames in red paper, if anyone wants to add one into their lantern, or atop their boat.

Once the first boats begin to settle on the water, she pauses a moment to watch. There's nothing for her, really - she didn't know anyone well enough to quite feel right making something, and she feels little to celebrate -

She blinks, pauses. Turns back to the table while no one's eyes are on it and begins to fold. The early folds are simple, just to crease the paper, and when that's done... She takes several looks around while she pulls up a brush and dark paint, and only when she's certain no one can see, writes a name down the length of it.

シ
ャ
｜
ロ
ッ
ト

プ
リ
ン

She folds it shut immediately. It's fine if the paint smears. She knows what it says, and it's important that no one else does.

Instead of a boat or lantern, she folds it into a paper crane. As the boats are launched, she steps up to the shore and blows it into the water from her fingertips.

Maybe it's okay like this, after weeks of doing her best to help and protect instead of lure and harm, to mourn and celebrate that the old her is dead.


2.

Like at the shore, Pudding doesn't say much. It's not her place. One thing she has done, with - well, she thinks, at least? - the "permission" of the cafeteria spirit, is make her good cocoa. For the warmth, for the sweetness, for the comfort. She has plenty for everyone, with two crock pots full, and she'll gladly ladle some into an old (clean) cafeteria mug for anyone who comes up.

2

[sublimebeast]

Link has been feeling guilty about the flood. So many people are gone and, yet again, he's still here. He's still here despite not being able to save a single person.

Some hero. If anyone deserved to get swept away in a storm, it's him.

He pushes the self loathing back enough to force a smile as he approaches the crock pots.

"...What is all this?"

[flangirl]

Pudding is a little lost in her own thoughts as she stirs the pots to keep the chocolate mixture even, but perks up... well, "perks up," smile still subdued, when a new face approaches.

"Hot cocoa. For the chill... inside as much as outside. Like this whole ceremony... we could all use a little warmth right now, I think." She reaches for a mug. "Would you like some?"

[sublimebeast]

"...Yeah."

Link hesitates, realizing that his voice is weak. He coughs, then repeats himself, this time with more firmness.

"Yeah! I'd like some. Thanks for doing all this."

I'm so sorry for how late this is >.> June/July ate me. lmk if you want to handwave!

[flangirl]

Pudding's smile is soft, sympathy clear and warm in her eyes. Understanding. It makes sense to falter now, her eyes say. It's okay.

Then she glances down to focus on ladling the cocoa, giving the stranger the chance to gather himself without scrutiny.

"Of course. I didn't know very many of the people lost. At least, I can give some comfort to those still here."

2

[notthatjason]

Once Jason is done talking and has ensured that everyone has what they need or feels like they've been seen (or heard), he makes his way over to Pudding. He was leading all of this, so it hadn't seemed like the time to do so earlier -- but now that most of his duties are wrapped up he knows he needs to talk to her.

It helps that she's serving hot cocoa -- it's an old comfort of his and he'd always made sure to grab some when the Night Market came. It wasn't quite to the level of New Rome's -- to home -- but it was close enough to be comforting.

"Hey. Just wanted to say thanks for your help today...we didn't get much of a chance to talk earlier."

[flangirl]

Pudding offers a smile, subdued for the atmosphere, but sweet all the same. "That's alright. You were leading the way. It's always nice to see leaders for things like this." She ladles him a mugful as she speaks; she's not going to ask if he wants one. After all this, he needs one. She holds it out wordlessly, and if he balks, she plans to insist.

"So you're Jason. It's nice to meet you."

Fjord | OTA

[fjorgedinfire]

Harbor

So Fjord is still bad at making small-scale things with his hands. He takes one of the little paper boats Jason already made, to use as a sort of tutorial for himself, but it's very difficult actually making the lines... well, line up, and a few times he's ended up with just a sheet of paper covered in so many folds that it couldn't be turned into a boat at all.

He's not getting frustrated, as such, but it's a little disheartening.


Launch

He lingers behind a little, when all of the boats are finally sent out. Looks at all the little boats and paper lanterns and origami all gently floating on the water. The reprieve he had with Soldat and Rosinante earlier in the week rings in his ears as he walks forward, wading into the shallows until his boots are nearly fully covered in water, he raises both hands, letting them hover parallel to his hips, feeling the control he has over the water shift, easy and almost natural, and the water around him stills, ripples into glassy calm as far as the light touches.

"Your death wasn't meaningless," he says - quiet, but not enough that the Southern twang isn't easy to still hear from a distance. "We'll remember all of you."

He lifts his hands, and the waters immediately in front of him surge, swell to rise up to his knees as he lifts his hands to his chest - and gently, firmly pushes forward. The water around his knees turn into a wave, and crests, and all the little paper figures get caught up in the tiny wave of foam and pushed into motion, slowly setting out across the lake until they're just dim shapes in the dark. To wherever it might take them.


School

He feels lucky, in some small way, that he wasn't the one to bury Mollymauk's body in the first place. But at least he knew it was. That it wasn't just jammed in an open crate in a hole in the ground behind a pair of locked doors, half-destroyed and rotting and--

He pulls his brush away from where he's painting Molly's name, so the trembling in his hand doesn't ruin his work so far. He's not dexterous enough to do this well - he got Kal-El and Alisaie's names up alright, but Molly's...

It takes him a few more seconds until he can stop his hand again, and paints the rest of his name in the rich purple paint he's managed to mix up. Alisaie's is in a warm white, almost pink; Kal-El's is a soft blue. He's not artsy, but he still manages to paint something that mostly resembles a peacock feather, with a single red eye, underneath Mollymauk's name.

When he's done, he stands up, puts his paintbrush back on the table, and turns back to the wall. His hand starts at his side, and in a sharp splash of water that splatters against the ground, his golden falchion appears in his hand. The fancy trick at the harbor was for everyone else; this one's for him.

"Last time, Molly." His voice is quiet, nearly inaudible, and - for those who might still catch it - in his true accent.

He shifts his grip, flicks the sword up and in front of him, and back down in a firm sailor's salute.

School

[worthallthis]

There are a lot of names Soldat wants to write on this wall, but they're... hesitant. Surely other people could do it better. Or who deserve to write them more, were more important or closer to people.

So they're waiting until most everyone else who came have written at least one name before inching up over next to Fjord to write Crowley's name in orange, like his hair. Well, not quite like his hair, but close. A t-shirt, folded in such a way that the crown on the chest is clearly visible, goes beneath that one. Aziraphale's is creamy white, and Ellever's in green. Eleven's name is in yellow, with a slightly-tattered stuffed llama placed under it.

They don't even scold Fjord for the water, though they do quickly pluck up the objects in question so they don't get wet. In the process, they look over what Fjord wrote. And... drew? "The feather. Why the feather?"

[fjorgedinfire]

Fjord does notice that quick pick-up, and he's careful to angle the sword away from it all when he goes to dismiss it again, so the water sprays in the opposite direction.

"Some of Molly's tattoos were of peacock feathers," he says quietly. "Seemed fitting t'try and give him something ostentatious, even if I'm not a great artist."

Jester would have drawn the whole fucking bird and it would have been beautiful.

[worthallthis]

"That's kind. My painting skill is not. Great. Either." Hence the shirt and stuffed toy, both once belonging to their respective people. They frown at the meager offerings, as they set them back down. "I don't have anything for Ellever or Aziraphale. Unless I put down the awful sweater-vest Aziraphale gave me for Christmas." That seems a little petty, though. They can still wear that even if it's the most ugly thing they've ever seen; the crown shirt doesn't even fit.

Bucky/Soldat - Harbor | OTA

[worthallthis]

Soldat is very adept at making little boats, and willing to help demonstrate or make them for other people, if needed. It's soothing. So it helping people, so anyone clearly struggling gets a wordless offer of a piece of paper to work on, or a finished boat and an understanding expression.

They're making a bunch for themselves, each with a little tiny star drawn on them, each carrying a little folded paper animals.

One has a fox. Another has a lion. Three have owls, all in different colors. There's one with a little dog and one with a horse, one with an eagle and one with a cat. One even has a little folded star. Each boat gets sent off with its symbolic paper burden while Soldat watches them drift away sadly.