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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
Your favorite tattoo.
no subject
[He sits down on a pew to roll his right pantleg up to his knee (which is a challenge given that he's still wearing his weird corduroy skinny pants from canon but like this is better than him dropping trow in front of everyone so just go with it), revealing a tattoo of Otachi and her baby coiled around his shin.]
This is Otachi, the Kaiju I got to meet face-to-face. Everyone said I'd regret wanting to see one alive and up close, but, hah. Not a chance. It was the scariest moment of my life, for sure, but so worth it.
no subject
Then she'll lean in to inspect it, reaching out to run a hand curiously over the lines if he'll allow it. It's not like robots do the tattoo thing, usually.]
Ah. Does this have something to do with the aliens you spoke of, or is it something else altogether? It is quite an impressive specimen.
no subject
Yeah, all my tattoos are the alien monsters that invaded us. Otachi was one of the last to come through the Breach before we closed it. She was pregnant. That's her kid.
[He taps a finger on the baby Kaiju.]
The Kaiju are part of this massive hivemind, so we sort of had this, like... Connection, I guess. I Drifted with another brain to learn how to stop them, and then, uh, I was able to salvage the brain from the fetus...
[His face falls as he trails off, and then he rolls his pantleg back down.]
So, yeah, that's my favorite. It's more, um, personal than the others, I guess.
no subject
[There's something heavy in that last bit, though she doesn't make it explicit -- she simply looks at Newt, with a certain sort of sharpness, connecting some pieces together and turning others over. Hm.]
Is she still here with you? Otachi.
no subject
No. The gods said any connections I had to my world have been severed while I'm here.
[He glances around the room. Thankfully, everyone seems preoccupied with the game, but he'd still rather not have this conversation out in the open.
But, also, whatever. He has nothing to lose anymore, and everyone else thinks he's scum already, anyway.]
There's a phenomenon called Ghost Drifting. It's been observed in Jaeger pilots after they've logged a lot of hours together. Basically, it means the connection between two minds manages to stay active despite the lack of technology initiating the bridge. No one's been able to figure out what triggers it or how to stop it. As far as our understanding of biology is concerned, it shouldn't be possible, but... I suppose a creature designed to be part of a hivemind might be more susceptible to such a thing.
no subject
[Because not unlike Sieg, she's still somewhere back at alien monster crisis given how busy they've both been recently. Go figure.
She continues to watch him, weighing the knowledge.]
So you suspect that the hivemind may still be influencing you, even here -- no matter what the gods tried to do to that connection. Perhaps it is a result of their inexperience, or some other factor. But I have been wondering.
However, any disjointedness or unnaturalness is minimal, isn't it? Not unlike being cursed here.
no subject
It's probably for the best, even if he doesn't enjoy talking about it. He's still struggling to figure out what exactly is going on with him, after all.]
...It's not quite that simple. You know how when people here get cursed, they don't realize they're cursed until a bunch of us point it out?
[same hat.]
Some part of me has known for a long time, I think, but it wasn't until after I was caught that it registered as a possibility to me.