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THE GRAVEYARD
THE LANDING
You’re having an out of body experience. That’s how it starts, dying. There isn’t any pain anymore, and for a moment, not much of anything else. Your thoughts are a dim hum in the back of your brain, the tips of your fingers seem miles away. Despite that, you find yourself moving, moving, moving from the last place you were in your own body and forward, until you reach a door that you haven’t seen since the beginning of the game. A door that wouldn’t open. A door cold to the touch and seeping with mist. It opens before you, and as if of someone else’s design you walk through it. As it closes behind you, you get the distinct feeling that if you turned around, you’d find it vanished.
What takes up most of your attention, however, is the tolling of church bells. They clang in rhythmic, almost maddening persistence--seems you’re just going to have to try and ignore them, as they show no signs of slowing or stopping, wherever they are.
Once the cacophony becomes easier to manage, the bong, bong, bonging evening out to a pulse inside your ears, you realize that where you are seems to be a world that's incomplete. The floor is nothing but a landing of invisible matter, a spooled red carpet leading you to a few rows of pews and a lone confessional.
You will notice, immediately ahead of you, a cute little mailbox fit for a suburban home. It bids you welcome, though the cheery paint job is a bit muted in this dark place.
Simple and neat furnishings dot the edges of where the landing seems to be: railings mark the unseen edges and draperies and sconces float in the void, giving an illusion of walls. Be careful, however, because they can easily be fallen through if leaned against. Fortunately, someone seems to have kept that in consideration, as a helpful sign warns just this.
On one side of the confessional, a room with bookshelves, a writing table, and pens and paper has been provided: a minimalist study for when you need a bit of privacy to think. On the other side, a wing of dorm-sized, lockable bedrooms provide another bit of space to oneself. There may not be enough for everyone, but nobody really has to sleep--so just take turns!
To the left of the pews, it looks like a miniature bar has been crafted with a small but decent selection of drinks. There's a small television seated on the counter, but it only seems to ever work two times a week: the week's opening announcement on Monday mornings, and Saturdays, tuning in at the beginning of the trial and tuning back out again at its conclusion. There's also a piano to one side of the bar, allowing anyone to provide musical accompaniment to their drinking.
Perhaps most interestingly, an ornate black doorway at the far end of the room leads to a curving hallway that ultimately leads to what appears to be a temple. It's similar to the altar room they'll remember from the living side, but there are no power inscriptions, and the only furnishings are wavering, grayscale candles on the walls that never seem to burn low and great sculptures of leaping rams. The two black-marble statues meet in the center, curved horns joined above a platform, decorated with nothing but a lone offering bowl. The dark marble of the item is cracked, but it seems like it'll still get the job done. Try sending something, if you wish!
Maybe this place is meant to be more. But for now, Patience is the only notable figure you have to place your attention on, and she comes forward to welcome you immediately.
"Welcome to my dominion," she greets in her usual, cheerful candor, and points at your hand, where you hold your godly token. "Now that you've been eliminated, I'll take that back and return it on your behalf. Don't worry, though, I'm not leaving you empty handed."
What takes up most of your attention, however, is the tolling of church bells. They clang in rhythmic, almost maddening persistence--seems you’re just going to have to try and ignore them, as they show no signs of slowing or stopping, wherever they are.
Once the cacophony becomes easier to manage, the bong, bong, bonging evening out to a pulse inside your ears, you realize that where you are seems to be a world that's incomplete. The floor is nothing but a landing of invisible matter, a spooled red carpet leading you to a few rows of pews and a lone confessional.
You will notice, immediately ahead of you, a cute little mailbox fit for a suburban home. It bids you welcome, though the cheery paint job is a bit muted in this dark place.
Simple and neat furnishings dot the edges of where the landing seems to be: railings mark the unseen edges and draperies and sconces float in the void, giving an illusion of walls. Be careful, however, because they can easily be fallen through if leaned against. Fortunately, someone seems to have kept that in consideration, as a helpful sign warns just this.
On one side of the confessional, a room with bookshelves, a writing table, and pens and paper has been provided: a minimalist study for when you need a bit of privacy to think. On the other side, a wing of dorm-sized, lockable bedrooms provide another bit of space to oneself. There may not be enough for everyone, but nobody really has to sleep--so just take turns!
To the left of the pews, it looks like a miniature bar has been crafted with a small but decent selection of drinks. There's a small television seated on the counter, but it only seems to ever work two times a week: the week's opening announcement on Monday mornings, and Saturdays, tuning in at the beginning of the trial and tuning back out again at its conclusion. There's also a piano to one side of the bar, allowing anyone to provide musical accompaniment to their drinking.
Perhaps most interestingly, an ornate black doorway at the far end of the room leads to a curving hallway that ultimately leads to what appears to be a temple. It's similar to the altar room they'll remember from the living side, but there are no power inscriptions, and the only furnishings are wavering, grayscale candles on the walls that never seem to burn low and great sculptures of leaping rams. The two black-marble statues meet in the center, curved horns joined above a platform, decorated with nothing but a lone offering bowl. The dark marble of the item is cracked, but it seems like it'll still get the job done. Try sending something, if you wish!
Maybe this place is meant to be more. But for now, Patience is the only notable figure you have to place your attention on, and she comes forward to welcome you immediately.
"Welcome to my dominion," she greets in her usual, cheerful candor, and points at your hand, where you hold your godly token. "Now that you've been eliminated, I'll take that back and return it on your behalf. Don't worry, though, I'm not leaving you empty handed."
OOC NOTES
Hello, eliminated competitors, and welcome to the graveyard. Although it isn't much to look at, now, this area will be growing and expanding in time with the help of your characters' actions and participation in weekly events. What they unlock will have an impact on the living side, overarching plot elements, and ways to communicate between both planes!
When it seems like there isn't much to do, there's always one option left: gathering information. So sit back, enjoy the afterlife, and put on your thinking cap!
When it seems like there isn't much to do, there's always one option left: gathering information. So sit back, enjoy the afterlife, and put on your thinking cap!
no subject
[Her eyes, which have rarely followed her fellow graveyard gents, slide away once again and she stares down at the wooden grain of the pew.]
It's simply something that must be done.
no subject
What, taking matters into your own hands? I'm well aware there's some parties here who are of the opinion a quicker end to this contest is a more merciful one.
[ 'Are you saying you're one of them?' ]
To that end, perhaps a strategy entailing calculated, precise strikes to eliminate certain targets would result in less overall bloodshed in the end. But if I'm to believe you when you say that you don't have a preference, you would have just as well just watched things play themselves out to their conclusion.
[ ... But she didn't. Or at least, she's here now, for some reason, and it's much more likely she involved herself somehow rather than simply be targeted at random. ]
Which is it, I wonder?
no subject
You can call it mercy, if you'd like.
I deal with the death in front of me.
[Unlike the majority of her time on the side of the living, there's less of a sense of serenity to her voice. There's a stillness and a hollowness to it, as though she's finally showing the mechanics that tick away on her insides. Almost.]
I don't have a preference as to who does the dealing, or how. It's quite simple. I stopped tolerating it.
no subject
[ a world without strife? a world without conflict, a world without war? a world without death?
the way she speaks almost reminds him of something. maybe similar sentiments in others here, tweaked and bent just a little. it's not something he can quite condemn.
besides. he knows he has no ground to be standing on if he'd wanted to moralize about death. there's a reason he doesn't bother, and it isn't because they're all being revived at the end of the competition. ]
no subject
[It's immediate, without hesitation, low and fierce.
Perhaps she's saying it half to herself. Perhaps she's simply speaking into the ever-present void, but there's nothing there that wavers. She doesn't use the word 'wish'.
Because a wish is something granted.]
As many times as it takes.
no subject
I see. And such a thing was possible, where you come from?
[ he and death have been companions so long. he's been running from it most of his life, despite it hanging close in every second counted out on the watches that were their lives.
it's still almost strange, to see this vehemence against the concept of it. not that people might die, or for the loss of loved ones, a fear of mortality, but simply death as a monolith.
he notes her word choice. he does not make mention of it overtly, but, ]
If you were capable of it, why come here at all?
no subject
[A hushed word. Hm.]
Death is always ugly, but made ever uglier the more it spreads.
We were all eternal, once, but now I am the only one who can grant eternity.
[It's oddly matter-of-fact, as though she were talking about taking a stroll in the garden or planting a dandelion.]
I suppose this wasn't the place to find it. An ending that didn't stink of death.
no subject
[ His smile is as warm and soft as always, but there's a distinct lack of body to it uncharacteristic to how he may have appeared not two weeks ago during their little house party. ]
You see a lot of things, you know, when you've gone through as many worlds as we Kresniks might have. You start noticing the things that stay the same.
People are people, regardless of the time or place. Whether Great Spirit or not, God or not- they all have their own wants and beliefs. And maybe we didn't know it at the start, but we certainly do now- these gods are so young. It's only inevitable that they may clash, sometimes with great consequence to the ones they pull into their affairs.
I don't know what the Ruin is. But you, having had eternity to see this...
[ an ending that didn't stink of death. what an odd way to say it. ]
Well. Perhaps we should call that sort of thinking hopeful.
Look on the bright side, then. I doubt those of us here can really be called dead, in the conventional sense of the term.
no subject
But you cannot deny life.
An infinite lifespan is infinite possibility. And that is what I see, and what I will always see.
[There's the same fire to her voice as before, low-burning and dark but without a single flicker. It twists up and up and perhaps destroys everything in its path, but it doesn't burn out.
There's no end to it.
Her voice quiets, back down to the simple flatness with which it began.]
These gods may be a careless bunch of squabbling children. But regardless, I won't die here.
no subject
[ it's one of the only constant things to expect, especially in a world slowly starving itself to death from a failure to thrive. where the highroads are dusty and desolate, and the lakes have run dry. ]
You know, I spoke to someone here, not long after we arrived. About the merits or the lack thereof in hypothetically doing evil in attempt to fix evil. Perhaps it still applies here, if we substitute the wording.
You claim you tired of the death here, and would have eliminated those you held responsible for our circumstances.
[ his tone is... surprisingly neutral, throughout all this. ]
Would you have killed people until there were none left to succumb to the concept you apparently loathe so much?
no subject
[She surrounds herself in the eternal seeds which she has planted, as brazenly and as endlessly and as mercilessly as she can. Because no one else will plant them. Because no one else can even see the possibility anymore.
That has always been death: the end of possibility.
She's quiet for a stretch, before she raises her eyes again -- the gaze is as cutting as it is hollow, an endless and unyielding darkness.]
With enough time, and enough faces, and enough everything -- you realize that speaking of good and evil and all that is in between is merely a luxury. It is a way to run away from the truth. Life. Death. If you take away eternity, then those are the only two choices.
[Her voice is still smooth, though the reasoning may be coming out a little left-of-center at this point. Her fingers tighten, digging into an arm.]
There are things I would prefer not to do. But I will defeat death and bring salvation.
no subject
He's so tired of all of this. ]
Good and evil are subject to human definition, that much is true. Evil was the word we used in our discussion then, but fire against fire is much the same content, and of lesser connotation. Regardless, I didn't want for us to get hung up on the semantics, so perhaps it's my fault for not simply leading with the wording I'd intended for this particular conversation.
[ Death, then, to combat more death. ]
You haven't answered me, Luna. You would have sown death in attempt to defeat it. How? Where would you have drawn the line?
[ If any at all? ]
no subject
She's a robot, and doesn't tire. Physically. She could do this forever, if she had to.
Julius simply gets a nod for his explanation, accepting his redirection. To her, it isn't just a matter of semantics. It's a matter of the concepts themselves, regardless of whether the definition is human, or robotic. And that, too, could take forever. She doesn't bother. Instead, quietly:]
I answered you. If there is a sickness in the harvest, then one may need to clear the field and start anew. There will always be seeds. That is how life is.
[There is no line.]
no subject
[ You start thinking of the big picture, and then the bigger picture that picture is contained within, and keep going and...
The trees that make up the forest don't matter, and the mountain of corpses you leave behind seem no more than molehills when the goal in the end supposedly eclipses it. To kill, and kill, and kill in pursuit of the ideal of protection, of sustaining life as a whole...?
Perhaps this is why he can't judge her, the same way he also was unable to entirely condemn Itachi and the other murderers among them. ]
What were you to your people, Luna?