logsinthenight | EVENT LOG: FOR EVERYTHING A REASON

Entry tags:

EVENT LOG: FOR EVERYTHING A REASON

characters: everyone.
location: the harbor.
date/time: september 6-7.
content: characters and forest spirits send off paper lantern boats in honor of those who have died..
warnings: character death

a somber kind of serenity.

When you arrive at the harbor, there are already boats in the water, and the lighthouse's red beam flares in slow pulses over the lake. The moon's a bright first quarter and the stars are out in force today, all reflected on the glassy surface of the water. It's uncharacteristically calm, this weather, so take advantage.

Rastus is down at the water's edge, tending to a large mound of pebbles that looks not unlike a miniature bonfire from a distance. The stones are all ordinary, having been collected from the beach, except Rastus has enchanted them to glow with a soft, yellow light. The enchantment will only last a week, but that's ample time for this little ceremony to send off those lost over the past two months. Or to send off something less literal, perhaps.

Next to the pile of stones is an array of craft materials—just the basic supplies like paper, markers, glue, and scissors, but more than enough to accommodate everyone in attendance. A handful of forest spirits (some you may recognize from the party!) are standing nearby to assist in paper-folding or boat-crafting if you're out of your depth there. They, along with Rastus, urge you to join in. This memorial is as much about you as it is anyone we've lost, after all. The boats can look like or represent anything you like.

Releasing boats lit with pebbles out onto the water will fill you will a sense of peace. It's a somber kind of serenity, but it's a relief nonetheless, whether you're mourning the loss of a friend or letting go of some other part of yourself. You're welcome to release as many boats as you like, too. It's not like there's a shortage of rocks around here, and even if the craft materials run low, there's plenty of other stuff around town that could be used in a pinch.

The forest spirits are in attendance, as well. Some are helping with the crafting, yes, but most are taking part themselves, building their own little boats to send out over the water. Their crafting involves more of a hands-on approach: Chomping and tearing and crinkling into unique shapes and textures. They stand out from the townsfolks' designs on the beach, but once the boats drift far enough into the surf, it's impossible to tell which vessels belong to which group. Feel free to NPC your own forest spirits for this event and refer to the OOC info post if you have questions about how they might behave.

On the final night of the event, a sound starts up along the treeline, one you haven't heard in some time, perhaps. Crickets. Cicadas. Katydids and beetles and the shrill hum of a mosquito in your ear. It seems insects have returned to Beacon from... wherever they were hiding, and the night air is now vibrant with their music. No more eerie silence back in town, where the sounds of the lake are snuffed out by the trees. It sounds almost like a real forest now.

And it will stay that way after this event ends, too. Maybe you were enjoying the time away from bugs or maybe you were longing for some sign that, yes, this world was alive once, but either way, the insects are here to stay. Well, until winter, at least.

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[There's a strange urge to... ruffle her hair. Except that would definitely be too much touching. Hmm. The Soldier reiterates for her,]

Nothing wrong with being a little weird. Here's your boat.

[It finishes up the last fold and offers it to her in a gesture that's almost a flourish. Not quite. But almost.]

[Not exactly complaining, but. The Soldier pauses to think a moment, unknowingly on the same train of thought as Rosinante. So it says, a thoughtful almost-question,]

How do they all trust enough to give that much away.

Most people have a lot of trust in others to begin with. And here, nobody's going to get far acting on their own. Gotta work together, and that means sharing what we discover, and helping each other figure this place out.

[The personal stuff can be held back, unless and until it becomes relevant. That life is over now anyway, and Rosinante welcomes the new start.

Maybe Soldat will see it that way too, eventually. He sees elements of himself in the man, but more than that he sees elements of the kids Doflamingo had taken in. Scared, alone, traumatized. Trained and given goals and purpose, even if that purpose was singular and violent.]

It's different, I get that. I don't know what you've been through, but this is different from where you came from. You can be a new person, if that's what you want. I don't think anyone here minds, so long as we make it through alive.

I'd hope so, or we're definitely going about this the wrong way.

[The trilling does sound like a question, though, for all he's inclined to slap human language conventions onto musical spirit-speak. Hmm!]

I think they want you to play for them again. I'm interrupting.

[Oops someone said the P-word. Thankfully the Soldier is comfortable enough with the conversation and its position at the moment not to actively freak out, but it's suddenly a little less comfortable. What pops out of its mouth is automatic:]

I am not a person.

[Can't be a new person if you were never a person to begin with. Also, it's almost tempted to make one of those network posts to inform everyone to stop calling it a person, that shit gets it in trouble and also panic. (Almost.)]

[Oookay, unexpected reply there. His eyebrows arch up under his bangs in surprise at the firmness of such an unusual statement.]

Sorry. My mistake. Then... what are you?

[What an odd question to have to ask, but this place and its - residents, apparently, if not all people - are full of surprises.]

[Yeah, sorry, Rosinante. It's a pretty random hang-up.]

The Asset. Property of HYDRA. Code name Winter Soldier.

[Eventually it'll get some personhood back. But it's only been a week.]

Right.

[He had said some of that earlier. Property of Hydra and all that, whatever it means. It just didn't strike Rosinante as a thing that would rule out personhood.

Well, he doesn't know the guy. It's not his place or his intention to correct him or anything like that. Not a person? Okay buddy. You do you. So he frowns slightly, but nods as he takes a draw from his cigarette. We'll just let this one go.]

Anyway, most others here are people as far as I know, and the point was, they trust each other because they don't have a reason not to, and because it's probably helpful to all of us. Up to you if you want to join in, or just sit back and keep reading and listening. They're always going to have more to say, after all.

Everyone he meets seems to ask some variation of that question. As if they expect he will freeze the entire town and lake on a whim. He frowns, thinking about that, because that's something he's done in the past. He was possessed and has no memory of it save for the aftermath, but he's certainly capable of it. They're right to be concerned.

"I'm not planning on freezing anything living, if that is a concern you have." He inclines his head to include the Soldier in that statement.

[You're the Soldier's favorite right now, Rosinante, for not making a big deal out of this. Actually helps that little bit of discomfort even out again. The Soldier nods.]

I'll reply if I see a need to. So far there hasn't been much need to.

[Nothing that a brainwashed assassin could really add to any conversations.]

But I'll keep that in mind. Thanks.

"But you could." The Soldier sits back on its heels, body tense.

The little war in its brain resolves itself. Maybe not now. Maybe not ever. But knowing someone could... it might be a good thing.

It even decides to explain a little, in case Kuai thinks the wrong thing about its interest. "Cryofreeze is required for full recovery from serious wounds. And for recalibration." Part of the process, anyway.

Whatever the reason it's both comforting and morose at the same time. The familiarity is pleasant, but with so few of us it's more somber than the occasion normally is.

To say nothing of the lack of festive food.

[Damn does he want mooncakes.]

"I could." He agrees. No use in hiding it, if they were ever in battle it would become pretty apparent just how powerful he was.

There's an explanation there, but not one he understands, "It wouldn't heal anyone, depending on the duration they would die if frozen too long."

Granted most could break out of it if he did decide to freeze anyone, though he could encase them in an entire block of ice and they'd suffocate before it melted. But he hasn't done that in years, he has no wish to have to do so again. It would be nice if he didn't have to fight at all, but that's far too much to ask for and he knows it.

"Recalibration?"

Honestly, the Soldier has no idea how it works. It was just patched up, slung into cryo, and came back out again whole. It's possible that regular freezing won't do it, too, and it'll just die for good, but one never knows until one tries. (And it's not like it's not already dead, anyway.)

"Recalibration." It lifts the metal hand to tap at one temple with a finger. The arm plates reconfigure again, this time with a stuttering sound, before it clarifies, voice a little harder: "Fucking brain scrambling."

I'm getting the impression that this is less of a festival and more of a funeral.

[which isn't going to stop him from remarking on the similarities and finding familiarity - and a similar homesickness - in it but. Eh. They already know they're dead, the graves and the memorials are just making it worse]

Were you going to float a lantern?

[ the first question is loaded and not something eliot can really answer for-- he takes a peek at the name --kol. however people choose to mourn, however strangely or impossibly ridiculous, if it helps at all, then it's more important than what anyone else thinks about it. not that he's an expert even slightly because he has his own share of things to reconcile that he's still learning to do, still struggling to be braver about, but what he does know of having made and sent of boats with quentin the day before is that even if one doesn't know if there will be any meaning, one's heart will always answer on its own. ]

In some respects, yes. [ there's no real way to absolve how quentin had died in front of quentin, but maybe that's why he's here again, wanting some other kind of closure of his own. ] But life is. Complicated and not at all what you always expect it to be.

[ he rolls his head a bit as he speaks, trying to gesture the peculiarity of it all on top of the reality. ]

That's why thinking about leaping is a mistake though. Not all of it's going to make sense, but it doesn't really have to. That's just. Life. [ he looks toward kol, then. ] You know?

[ as if understanding quentin's concern, eliot's next words follow: ] It's not really a goodbye, you know. Sure, I think that's what people would like for it to be, since it's sailing off into the distance and away from you, but deep down, I think we all know that it's as impermanent as any other attempt from before.

[ really, if it were so easy to be rid of all those regrets, eliot thinks he could have maybe even liked himself before he ended up here. no, nothing ever really leaves. you just learn better to take only what you need from it, and let the rest of the pain subside.

what he says next is one of those rare moments, where he actually submits to the notion he might know more than he deigns himself to know as someone who isn't a nerd. only nerds can really be good magicians though. that's just how it works. ]

You know, in some cultures, they actually write messages to send because they think their loved ones will end up seeing them.

We can only watch the boats sail away, but. Maybe somewhere. Far, far away from where we could see or. Even feel. Maybe they can see the boats sail in. And maybe they're waiting every day, hoping for that ship with their name on it to come to shore.

_{[Sappy. It feels so patently off base that he can't even muster much irritation. He's been pressed and kneaded into so many different shapes in a short amount of years that he can barely remember the boy before the Badlands, but he's sure he was never sappy. He turns on the tap to detachment, letting it soothe wounds before the salt from Riku's barbs can make them sting.]}

You'd be wrong to mistake it for weakness, and so would they. I've killed plenty of them and I'd do it again.

_{[Understanding their shame is one thing, showing them mercy is another.]}

And I don't play. _{[What do you think he is, Riku, a kid?]} Fine, don't tell me. It's none of my busin--

_{[A tug on his sleeve cuts him off. Looking down, he sees the spirit now pulling at his arm for attention, smiling with outlandishly crooked teeth. Proudly, it holds up the lantern paper, showing them its take on M.K.'s design.

A blue butterfly. He instantly regrets indulging the whim, having not actually expected the spirit reproduce it so faithfully. For a creature that can't even talk, it's better at drawing than him. That is a handful of salt, and for more than one reason.]}

His eyes dart to the arm, wondering what that sound is. He'd thought that his arm was similar to Jax Briggs' but these seem to be ... doing something.

"That's not how ice functions at all," he sounds confused, not understanding the comparison or why any of this would have to do with freezing. "I've been under someone else's control, I would never do such a thing to someone else. Nor do I have the ability."

Good to know this guy wouldn't want to, at least. Not many people ever said that, before.

"Maybe it's how I function." It isn't like the Soldier understands it, either. It drops its hand, looks away from Kuai's hands finally, and goes back to folding the paper for its current boat. "I don't know how it worked. No one ever explained."

Oh El--

[Quentin says it quietly, almost in to his sleeves because his hands are at his mouth, and the words come out on the tail end of a half-sob, voice wet and eyes stinging. What is it about this place, that makes him want to tear up? It could be the darkness, pressing in on him, on them, from all sides, but it's not bad with Eliot here. With two sources of light instead of just the one and it's pretty here, in a way that he never expected this fucking place to be. The points of lights in the distance and he wants, wants, wants.

To write the letters.

To write down everything he wanted to tell them all, but never did because despite everything the universe threw at him, he always expected to have time to do it later.]

It doesn't work that way. There's no magic that can bring the words of the dead back to you. [but he really, really wants there to be. Wants to tell them all how loved they were and how precious and how every last one of them (yes, even Penny) made life better in some way. Curling his arms around his bent legs, Quentin rests his head on his knees and looks at Eliot.]

But. I'm not-- I-- uhm, but we can try? Maybe? God, Eliot, I want to and I don't even know why I want to? There's just this part of me that has so many things to say to everyone and-- okay. [he wipes his arm over his eyes] Want to build a boat with me?

[ you don't know until you try, he wants to say. but he can see the conflict between the tears and the protest. they're words of denial, but there's that silent hope there that always lingers, in anyone who wishes and wants even the impossible to be true.

isn't that the heart of quentin coldwater, after all? that deep, boundless hope, even in the darkest of dark, that there has to be a good somewhere to believe in.

eliot's chest aches a bit, wanting to draw quentin in to comfort him but knowing he'd drawn the line himself that makes quentin try to hide away the sorrow as quickly as it had taken him. there's still time, though. maybe. for something less intimate, more chaste and within the invisible walls erected around them.

reaching forward casually as is his way, eliot offers his hand, to help quentin to his feet. ]

With all my heart, Quentin.

[Eliot, still looking like a High King even crouched on the forest floor with him, even in the dark and dressed in somber black like he's in mourning. But to be fair, it's the only clothes he has here and even the best cleaning spells will wear it out after a year. If experience counts for anything. It's a stray thought, about Eliot, a well-worn grove in his brain that always, always notices him even when he probably shouldn't. Always commenting voice in the back of his mind on the cut of his shirts and the width of Eliot's shoulders, the graceful movements of his hands.

With practiced ease, Quentin forces his eyes and his thoughts back to the boats before getting up and grabbing his lantern off of the ground.

He shuffles his feet most of the way there, like he doesn't really want this, or like he can somehow trick himself in to not thinking about what they're about to do, as he gets sheets of paper and art supplies from the piles near the water. A few glowing rocks make it in to the pile as well.

He can't think of anything to say, not when the arts and crafts things clutched to his chest, but he shifts his lantern to the already overflowing hand and brushes the back of his empty one against Eliot's, not quite holding hands but close enough to find some measure of comfort. To offer it back, too, because Eliot lost Margo, and he can only imagine how that must feel.

He sits down crossed-legged on the beach and spreads the supplies out in front of him, picking up a piece of paper and a pencil, he starts writing in fits and starts, pencil moving unevenly across the paper as he writes a letter to his dad.]

I--uhm, you can make one? Too? There's like a lot of paper here. [Too much maybe. He'd really just grabbed a stack and hurried away.]

[Before turning back to write the lines to his dad, what he should have said and how missed he is, was, and how sorry Quentin was to have missed the final days of his life. He ends it with one large Q at the bottom before folding it in to a paper boat, the kind they used to make together when Quentin had been a kid. They'd made one, once, and painted it bright red and set it out in a lake, watching it together until it sank under the small waves because the paper got too wet.

With care, he draws out the tuts to keep the glowing rock from dropping out of the boat as he places it in it, and moves to stand by the edge of the water.]

Goodbye, dad.

[Almost as soon as his boat hits the water, this sense of peace creeps over him. Like he can breathe again and he turns to Eliot with a quiet gasp of surprise, mouth open on the exhale. Peace and something like calm warmth, like waking up in a pool of sunlight to a world without fear.]

Oh. Oh, Eliot--

[ daylight nods in agreement, looking thoughtful and pleased that someone gets it. ]

Yeah. If we take the time to remember them, they're still around, in a sense. [ he frowns now, but not because of sorrow but by his own forgetfulness. he tilts his helm to the side and he looks deep in thought. as if trying to remember something important. ] Mom once said, 'The quickest way to be rid of a person is through death. The surest way is obscurity.'

[ ... ]

That's why I'm glad this festival is happening. It's sad and it hurts to do this but- [ he pauses, taking a deep breath to keep himself from getting too worked up. ] -it's important. I'm happy that we're all taking the time to say goodbye and thank you to everyone.

[ them and the spirits. daylight has seen the way the spirits have been acting throughout the activities: contrite and sad, nervous but willing to try. he's determined to show that to them in return. ]

You're not, though. And uhm I can play and talk? Not at the same time, but-- [yeah that was a stupid thing to say, but Quentin plays the ocarina again, keeping his eyes on the spirits as he does it, trying to see if they come closer or moves further away depending on what he's playing.]

You found clothes. Did you find a place to stay, or?

[Don't just ask people if they're squatting in the square, Q. And he busies himself with blowing the ocarina again.]

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EVENT LOG: FOR EVERYTHING A REASON

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