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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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[scoot scoot scoot]
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For the offering bowl, obviously. And a snack. I'm a bottom feeder and I don't have a stomach so I'm perpetually hungry.
[This has been a Goldfish Fact.]
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Whatever it is, I am not going to pretend to be related to the bottom feeder it says on his card, thank you!
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[She wags her parasol at him.]
Now make yourself useful and help me look.
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Dearest brother, did you hear what that mongrel of a diving instructor said about me? The nerve.
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What were you doing last night, then?
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We were children! Surely you can't truly believe that your own blood had anything to do with this terrible crime!
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Can't I, dearest sister? You still haven't answered any of us. Of course, I don't necessarily want to accuse you or believe you responsible, but it isn't as if we've stayed very close over the years. For all I know, you might have, or you might not have.
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[She nudges the dogs aside with her parasol.]
I was shacking up with the mayor last night, I'll have you know. Not that my sexploits are any of your business, but if you insist on an alibi, the Honorable Mayor Patience can vouch for me.
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Ma was right, it must run in the family somehow what with how you seem to have inherited some of pa's wilder tendencies.
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[Newtgina tugs down her neckline to expose more pretend tiddy. She's still got it.]
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Evidence of her awful crime
Underneath the pews!
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[But Gina's trying to shoo this grudge-holding swim instructor out of her space. YOU'VE HELPED QUITE ENOUGH YOUNG MAN.]
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