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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[Quentin shuffles a little ways away from everyone else. He didn't lose anyone here a short while ago and he doesn't feel like he has the right to intrude on other people's grief. In the near-silent somberness of it all, but the boats are pretty and even the slightest hint of light is a welcomed sight.

He keeps to the outskirts of the event, just looking on and quietly marveling at the sight of boats being set carefully in to the water, even by the forest spirits, and the whole wonder of them crowding out the darkness for a little bit as they sail across the lake.

Sitting down, back against a tree, he watches them all and thinks about his own dead.]

[But the forest spirits are curious spirits and a few manage to make their way over to the tree Quentin has placed himself under and he stares at them, a little open-mouthed and wondering and also, just that hint of fear because didn't one the ones who's been here a while, mention that the spirits attacked everyone.

The bravest of the spirits comes closer, though, close enough to make a musical sound at him and sniff the air around him. Fumbling his ocarina out of his pocket, Quentin tries to say 'hi' back and the result is... well, it is, because now there's two of them and they thrill softly back, moving as if they're aware of how scared Quentin might be. Moving slowly and carefully as they get close enough to touch, but when Quentin holds a hand out - like you would to a squirrel or a duck, they move away. Just out of arms reach, but they stay close.

Quentin keeps his playing soft and very quiet, so he doesn't disturb the ceremony, but he keeps trying to talk to the spirits, or at the very least, not piss them off.]

Edited 2019-09-07 14:22 (UTC)

[ he's always nosey as hell, but seeing q with his lantern hanging back at the edge is a special sort of reminder that something needs to be done. even that first month quentin had been a brakebills, this had been the norm for a reason. some people just shouldn't be left on their own sometimes, and this moment especially is not one when quentin should be sitting out. ]

Don't you want to make one?

[ it's hard to appear out of nowhere like he used to when the fact everyone has to carry a damn lantern everywhere to see anything at all makes it impossible to, but he still tries, even if quentin probably saw his light coming out of the corner of his eye. ]

Mmm?

[It's almost hypnotic, the way the small waves carry the boats away, wavering a little up and down as they sail out and past the point of where they're easily distinguished from the stars. Rolling his head back, he looks up at Eliot and just waves his hand a little.]

I didn't know any of the people who died. Or, uhm, the spirits? The message said some of them died, too. And-- look, they're making boats. How is that even-- I mean, we've seen some shit in Fillory, but something like this?

[There's little noise coming from anyone, even the forest spirits, and Quentin keeps his voice pitched low, an almost whisper in the darkness, only it's a little lighter now that Eliot's lantern is lighting things up as well.]

I don't want to, like, interrupt them? Mess it up for them? You know.

[ he turns back to watch a little as quentin describes it. it's haunting, a bit. like something out of one of kitschy japanese horror film before some curse sets in (though admittedly, he only feels this because it's fucking dark as hell forever out here, and it is starting to mess with him a little). but there's a beauty to it too, and importance that would be remiss to ignore. ]

It's not about only the people who died recently. It's symbolic. Did you never see Tangled? [ floating lanterns, lit boats. same shit, different world. ]

You wouldn't mess anything up. Things like this are meant for everyone to find peace, not just whoever lost someone last month. What would the point be of mourning only the few when there were always more before?

I have not seen Tangled, no.

[As if that had been the point Eliot was trying to make, and Quentin wants it to be, just a little bit. He doesn't want to think about everything he's lost. Everything they've lost. But it's as if this whole night is pushing it at him, the ritualistic feeling to the scene playing out by the shore of the lake. The many beings making small tokens of grief to push in to the water, letting them sail away.

It tugs at him.

The want.

To be able to put his feelings about all of them in to little paper boats, light them up with magical rocks and send them off. To be a part of this, to mourn his dad all over again without the Monster breathing down his neck. Maybe make one for Arielle, too. He mourned her in Fillory. And again when they get the memories or the memories of memories back after the Throne Room and Margo's wedding.

Still resting against the solid trunk of the tree behind him, Quentin can almost see what the boats should look like. What he'd write on them, before folding them up.]

I've read a story about something like this once. About putting your last words to your dead loved ones in letters and sending them off? There's a place down there without a lot of people. Maybe-- [wistful sigh, and really, there's nothing stopping him but himself, but it just seems like a goodbye. Making a boat, and Quentin's not all that sure he wants to. Say goodbye.] we could make one? For the rest of them?

[ 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.

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--

[ he's got his eye on quentin the whole time, knowing better than to let his friend's emotions fall to chance when it will cut open wounds, presses him into that place of volatility he doesn't really like but always seems to find himself in. eliot can't help remembering that first day he opened up to q. 'just help me live with myself.' of course he wished he could have told quentin that it gets better. of all the people who held the weight so close to their heart, quentin needed it likely even more than eliot needed it himself. but the world is just fucked up, and for even as much as quentin later came to feel some disdain toward fillory for being anything but the soft welcoming world he'd fantasized about, eliot knew fillory was no crueler than earth. which made it all the more disappointing for someone like q.

he gathers his own supplies as well, quickly so as to keep his focus on q as much as possible. when they sit, eliot sits opposite, his components parallel so quentin can just as easily borrow from what eliot's taken for them. he can't manage any words and instead nods when q invites him to make one of his own. but he doesn't know what to do, instead staring at the page and unclear of what should follow.

he makes the craft instead, debating what name to write at the end, and when q gets up to set out his boat, eliot stops to go with him, a shadow even insomuch as theirs are muted in the lack of light. at the gasp, eliot reaches out, hand to the small of quentin's back, drawing q in closer because he suddenly seems so far away. ]

I know, Q. [ he presses a kiss to quentin's temple. ] I know.

Do you? Do you real-- it's--

[Leaning in to the hand like he's done it a million times, Quentin can't take his eyes off of his boat, his one tiny boat among all the rest of them, sailing off and taking his goodbyes with them. That peace, that feeling of being just filled with it holds even as he twists against Eliot to just kind of breathe at him, head tilted back to look up.]

It's beautiful. It's. I can't even--

[And the soft, careful memories of his dad are there, just beneath the surface and raising up like bubbles. The time they tried to paint the hallway on their own, and failed so hard they had to use the backdoor for a week and let the painters do it. That time he'd broken a leg at thirteen and had been bound to the house for weeks, and his dad watching show after show with him on the couch in the living room to cheer him up. So many dinners and packed lunches with little notes in them until Quentin grew up enough to ask him to stop. Memory after memory and they're all lit up golden in his head, like something happy and cherished and not weighted down by what came later.]

I want. I want to make another one. For the others. For... you know. I think I need to.

You've gotten better at that.

[And here's Kakyoin, standing with his arms crossed and leaning against the tree a little behind Quentin. He keeps his voice quiet so as not to spook the spirits, which is also why he's still standing; his track record with spirit pleasantries is Bad, so for now, he'll keep a slightly safer distance and watch.

But hey, wannabe translator. How's it going. We are all fully dressed now.]

[Putting the ocarina away, or, at least pulling it from his mouth instead of just blowing it hard at Kakyoin, Quentin tilts his head back until it rests against the tree. The few spirits that were circling him, stop moving and just sort of looks at them, heads tilted and nostrils flaring. Well, for the ones who had nostrils. Not all of them did.]

I've been practicing. Hello. [He keeps his voice down like Kakyoin and just sort of whispers it back.] You found clothes!

I did, in that general store... They'll do in a pinch.

[They're no school uniform, he means, but he's located enough serviceable and plain clothes to retire the sheet. Progress! That he has also thrown in a pair of suspenders is just because he's a dweeb.

But more importantly: spirits. Kakyoin eyes the ones now just staring, raising an eyebrow; is this 100 percent safe? Should they trill something placating every thirty seconds just in case?]

How is the 'interpreting' going?

Uhm, honestly? Not very good.

[A forest spirit makes a soft sound, a little like a song and Quentin tries to make the sound back, only it sounds off-key and slightly like scraping a fork down a plate the wrong way.]

It's going to shit. I mean, they don't seem dangerous? Now? But-- they killed people? And we killed them?

[And it's a good thing Quentin isn't a paranoid sort of person, because getting them all here would be a great way to get revenge. If anyone would want that. But he isn't and he only watches the spirits and the glowing boats.]

I didn't even know they had clothes in the store. I thought we'd have to-- that we'd all end up in leaves or, or homemade clothes made from upholstery or something.

[Kakyoin very nearly says something totally normal and cool like "anyone can kill people," but he thinks better of it and shrugs instead.]

Are you making fun of my sheet? I had to improvise.

[Maybe he'll need it again one day!! But he says it good-naturedly enough, finally moving to sit down and join Quentin in staring at these spirits. Politely, this time, as much as he can manage it.]

They seem to like the tentatively-positive attention, at least.

Oh! I wasn't. Making fun of the sheet? I was--

[Making fun of his own really crappy skills at making clothes from scratch? The maybe-feral life style everyone would have to adopt if basic necessities started to fail? He shrugs.] nevermind.

Yeah. I mean, they seem to be trying to say something? And it doesn't sound threatening? Or, you know, like something you'd say right before ripping someone throat out? But...

[Yeah, he's just going to let that line of thought go, trailing off in to the unsaid.]

Alright, alright, I know.

[Chill, bud. Just know that sheet robes are going to be in if the general store runs out of clothes.

But anyway, throat ripping!!] That's... graphic. I can't say I've ever had my throat ripped out, so I wouldn't know how that sounds.

I mean, it sounds... nice? [as if to demonstrate, one of the forest spirits makes a soft sound, like music only the notes go up at the end like a question.] See? I mean, if it was about to go on a killing spree, wouldn't it make like aggressive noises?

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.

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.]

[Quentin... he's trying and that's endearing, in its own way. Kakyoin shifts to lean a little and look at the spirits, curious about their reaction as well. Totally subtle about staring, as usual.]

I did— one of those... [he holds his hands up in a little triangle shape, because he has no idea how to describe an A-frame, he's never seen these goofy little houses before. But that one.] Tiny houses? My friend picked it out, but it will do.

Well, as long as there's a bed, it's fine. Right? [Walls were a good thing, too. And a roof, but starting to list all the basic things about a living space seems just a bit too weird, and Quentin snaps his mouth shut, fingers busy twisting around the ocarina.]

Yeah, my friend found somewhere, too. It's uhm, maybe it's the same as yours? Because it's a triangle house? A cabin, really. Not much space but it's enough and really, no one knows just how long we're going to have to stay here. I hope it's not forever. [The spirit trills at them, the voice soothing and soft in the dark night and Quentin huffs a breath before sitting up a little straighter.] I really hope it's not forever.

[Ah- you know, he's not going to say it out loud, but some part of him is relieved to hear Quentin has a friend around. He just seems... skittish, that's all. But never mind that, put a pin in that for later, ahem.]

I can't imagine it will be. [Because the Keeper will get rid of them one way or another, but--] I'm pretty confident something will have to change eventually.

[yeah! positive thinking!]

Yeah, I was afraid of that. I don't know where-- uhm, when? you're from? But where I'm from? Things changing is never a good thing. It's always-- always just one more horrible, shitty thing after another and just when you think it can't possibly get any worse? The universe proves me wrong. Like, every. single. time.

Just look at this place? I mean, I don't mind dying so much, but. This place? The threat of World Eaters and what not? And we can die again? What's up with that? Sure, some people came back, but. Uhm. [So not his thing to say anything about and despite not really knowing Daylight outside of a few texts on the screen, Quentin doesn't want to mention his... problem. So he just busies himself with blowing the ocarina again. At least it keeps his hands busy and stops him from saying too much.]

Quentin Coldwater | The Magicians

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