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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!
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That said, I'm not sure of how intact they are once they get there. If you head over to the offering room, you'll understand why I might have this concern.
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[he sighs.]
Well, it's worth a shot.
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[ not a reprimand, just a soft warning. ]
Patience is the one who tallies the follower count at the beginning of each week and apparently is responsible for bringing us the letters brought over. It's not impossible to think it might be the same in reverse.
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Then by all means, don't let me stop you.
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[a beat, and then as if he just remembered:]
By the way—it shouldn't matter now since you kicked the bucket in a ten times more ridiculous manner anyway, but hope you don't have too many hard feelings about the whole Strung Red fiasco. The person who did it was just stupid rather than malicious.
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closes eyes ]
Believe me, I'm well aware of how ridiculous the manner of my death was, and if it had happened any further from curfew I might have actually managed to get myself to the infirmary to treat myself in time. I only didn't bother to try to indicate my killer because I'm fairly sure it wasn't in the least premeditated, for all the good that did.
[ Rachel ended up dead anyway, so that's the story of his life apparently. ]
That said, I don't like my mind not being my own. So I can appreciate, at least, that they didn't try it again after hopefully learning their lesson the first time about frivolous power usage.
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And no one on that side is mercenary enough to have told them that they could have weaponized it in a way to benefit- themselves, at least, if not the others as well?
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The one who targeted you, you just sort of hope they don't trip over themselves.
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They're that much of a disaster, huh. [ ... ] It's not Luke, is it?
[ there's a few others who might come to mind, but first- ]
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[ so his tone turns a little musing, actually, as he rattles thoughts off as he works through them like he's simply thinking out loud. ]
As far as disasters of note, Cinque doesn't seem the type to let this sort of thing get her down for long, if at all. Sieg... is a little passive, but also fairly realistic about our circumstances here. Majima certainly might be reckless enough, but putting him in the same sentence as 'traumatized' by something like this feels... [ anyway.
he shrugs a little. ]
That said, I don't actually think it's any of the above. Madoka and Senri are my final suppositions, based on their reactions when it happened. You don't really need to answer either way, though, and I'm aware that Madoka, I believe, has since swapped gods at least once, so being afraid to use her power wouldn't really be a factor anymore.
[ or at least she said things during trial that implicated she's (still?) currently with Cunning and he's pretty sure she would not have originally been a Cunning follower. so. ]
Of course, I might just be wildly off base.
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Well. It isn't as if it matters anymore.
Unless my brother finds out, anyway.
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That's my concern...
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Welcome to the daily unlives of those on this side, I suppose.
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You'll hear no arguments from me about that.
[ let!! the dead!! help!! ]
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[ but he isn't offended, so. ]
But no- when I first got here I made a point of attempting to explore the boundaries of our holding area. Fruitlessly, I might add. And while my stance on Patience has slackened some, I still wouldn't say I trust her too much. [ sorry, Patience. ]
Still, our influence is incredibly limited, and there's only so many letters one can write without receiving new information.
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