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logsinthenight2019-08-18 05:06 pm
inthenightmods) wrote in logsinthenight2019-08-18 05:06 pm
EVENT LOG: DO YOU REALIZE? PART TWO
EVENT LOG:
DO YOU REALIZE? PART TWO
characters: everyone.
location: Bonfire Square.
date/time: August 18-19.
content: the party takes a turn for the worst.
warnings: violence, gore, character death.
"but if your lantern's too banged up to fix, you ain't coming back."
Late on Saturday evening, just as the party's hitting its stride for the night, the foghorn sounds. It's a frantic blaring, the deep, hollow bellows of the horn echoing over the trees in some approximation of a song, impossible not to hear from wherever you might be lingering this evening.
It captures the attention of the forest spirits, first and foremost. They drop whatever they're up to as soon as the first note strikes the air, and they listen. You listen, too, though any sense of understanding is lost on you. One thing is clear, though: the time for distraction is over.•••
The tone of the party has changed, and not for the better. Before, the forest spirits at least seemed to be enjoying themselves, feasting and dancing, wobbling around and entertaining themselves. Now...
Now, the atmosphere has changed. There's tension thrumming through the air.
One's head snaps to the side sharply, focusing on something unseen in the forest. A few moments later, and others do the same: bodies locked in place, limbs frozen, they stare at something out into the darkness. Can you see it? Maybe. Maybe there's something out there... and maybe you'd better not attract its attention. Two pinpoints of green light, glimmering though no light manages to reach its body. It doesn't move, and neither do the spirits in town, but perhaps it's best not to disturb them.
A few aren't so calm. Mouths dropping open, the noises they emit range from low urgent clicks to desperate howls, but all give off a deep feeling of anxiety. Fear, verging into terror, claws digging into dirt and spirits skittering madly over buildings, limbs snapping erratically, the path of their movements understood only to themselves. They don't lash out at others, not yet— but there's a frantic energy to their movements which suggests something is wrong.
Good thing you're disguised as a spirit, isn't it? Although if you haven't gotten to that station yet, rotten luck. Maybe you better get to hiding, because right now it seems like the spirits aren't so keen on things that don't belong.•••
Ah, but after that initial panic, the foghorn abruptly goes quiet. The lighthouse beam shuts off, too. The thing with the green eyes vanishes, and most of the other forest spirits have already fled or are still stuck frozen in town, but it's now that the others attack. Apparently not all of the spirits were won over by the party's attempt at diplomacy.
The hostile spirits attack with abandon, and can't be reasoned with. The only way to stop them is to kill them or detain them, although you could just wait it out and hope they move on soon. In any case, how you deal with the spirits is up to you. Feel free to NPC them in your own threads if you'd like to fight them or attempt to interact with the frozen ones, though the fighting spirits will continue to fight until dispatched and the frozen spirits won't snap out of it no matter what you do.
As far as what the expedition teams are up to, that's up to them. All expedition teams including the team that's with Winters are able to make it back to town to witness the chaos. What happened out at the lighthouse, though? The Winters crew will be sure to let you all know... soon.
And if you'd like to go after the spirit with the green eyes? Well, go ahead, but do so at your own risk.
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iii.
she maneuvers around as if in a daze, helping whom she can with her meager medical supplies as the remnants of the partygoers and the stragglers from the lighthouse congregate tiredly. when she makes it to the periphery of the bonfire square, she spies a lone figure staggering a bit in his steps — it's m.k., looking as though he's been to hell and back, and clarke freezes in her own steps when he turns on her and advances toward her lantern light, bellowing a warning. ]
It's me. [ she puts up her hands in supplication, slowly placing her lantern on the ground beside her first. ] Hey. M.K., it's me. It's Clarke.
[ a glance down at his leg, bloodied red with his own blood, reveals he hasn't made it out completely unscathed. her hands are still raised, lest he's still under the influence of whatever beserker-like rage she'd witnessed him in — if he hasn't completely snapped out of it yet, and if he brandishes his scimitars in her direction. (not the first time she's had a sword pointed at her; at least she won't flinch.)
she nods at his leg. ] You should let me see it — it needs to be cleaned and re-bandaged.
no subject
At first he's a little relieved to see it's her and not another spirit. In truth, he needs sleep more than he needs to be picking fights, and he stays at a distance in the hopes the darkness will be forgiving in what it conceals of his state. But she doesn't stop at announcing herself as more friend than foe. She shows her palms as one does to a threat or a wild dog.
Were that all, he'd think nothing of it, as they're doubtlessly all keyed up. Except she puts her lantern down, and says his name, and still holds her hands up even after identifying him like he's on the same level as the spirits and more foe than friend--and that's when he realizes she must have saw. She saw him go dark. He's read the same fear and wariness in too many people once they know the truth to mistake it for anything else.
He watches all of this in silent, dawning understanding, and in his tiredness he still has room to feel the syrupy slow roll of anger. It's always the same, why would he expect any different here? He's just spent the last day fighting spirits and defending these people, and his reward is a lion-tamer tone meant for soothing animals, like he's the next danger on the verge of going on a rampage. And she's not wrong. He's a dark one. She's not. This is the difference between their kind.]
Afraid of me? Good. You're smart to be.
[Calm. Too calm, maybe, until she harps on his injuries. With a soft scoff and shake of his head, his answer betrays a sharp edge of irritation.]
Worry about yourself. You shouldn't be out here--you're just making yourself a target. Go inside.
no subject
belatedly she understands her hands raised in supplication are part of the problem, and she lowers them back to her sides, shaking her head in denial of his accusation. ]
I'm not afraid of you. [ there's conviction in her voice, if he deigns to listen. ] But I'm also not so much of an idiot not to know that you went somewhere, just a little while ago, and I wanted to make sure you've fully come back, that it's you, and not — [ whatever else that held him in its thrall, momentarily.
there's another shake of her head, this time solidly obstinate. ] And I'm not going inside. Not until I see to your leg.
no subject
You're not as good of a liar as you think you are.
[And as he speaks, his voice deepens, darkens, taking on a low, resonant growl that no human voice could. As he says it, he lets darkness pool back into his eyes, showing off the impenetrable inkiness of them with his lantern.
He's tired, but not so tired he can't make a point. He's not the boy all of the time and the gift sometimes any longer. He is the gift, and the gift is him. He wants her to see--see that he hadn't gone anywhere, that he could've scared the piss out of her anytime he'd wanted to.]
I'm right here. You might have it in your blood, but I control it.
[And he won't have anyone remind him of his lack of it, especially not some girl who doesn't know what she's talking about and has to rely on some archaic weapon to do her fighting for her.]