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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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[Not that it's about her, right now - but it's an attempt to make him feel more at ease.]
I guess we've had to trust each other more quickly than we would have in almost any other situation.
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[god, he hopes he doesn't have to do this for ten more years.]
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tw: child death
[That he was so young, too young, and he should have given the second chance at life instead of Chuuya.]
Every time I try to talk about it, it's showing an open wound to someone you hope isn't going to make it worse.
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[...]
It's not... the same, but I think I at least get some of what it must be like. So, you aren't alone.
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[If it was asking too much he'd still ask but-]
I wouldn't ask for them to live to be a hundred or something ridiculous like that. Just, for both of them to get to be adults. Isn't that the least of what a father can wish for?
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...No. Of course not. It's not too much to ask for anyone to have that chance.
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Chuuya buries his face in his hands, trembling.]
But I can't do anything. Not for them, not for any of the children I care for here, I can't do anything and I hate it-
[And hates himself along with it, for being so weak.]
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Hey. Hey, it isn't your fault, okay?
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I can't even properly - I liked Catra, I can't hate her now and I hate that more than anything - I can't even do that one thing right.
[Of course he knows he couldn't have stopped a disease. Of course he knows he couldn't have prevented murders that happened after he was stuck here.
But his feelings on his children's killers are under his control, or should be.]
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...It's okay.
[She can't say the same for not hating her, but - that isn't what he needs to hear right now.]
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It's not okay. It hasn't been okay for a long time.
[But he still clings to her.]
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...No, it's not. But - maybe someday it will be. You know?
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[Zoe doesn't need to deal with this. Ray doesn't need to deal with this.]
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[She sighs.]
I don't mean to say it doesn't matter. Because it does, all of this really sucks. But I don't want you to give up, either.
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[The numbers are so close now that any of the surviving ones could still win. He could get his wish.]
And if that doesn't happen, then... Then I'm not any worse off than I started.
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Yeah, she could still win. And if not... I know at least one of the gods wants to grant everyone's wish if he wins.
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[Chuuya manages a tiny, weak smile.]
...But it'd be nice if your god won, too.
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It's lame that we might not be able to all get participation awards.
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[He's feeling good enough to make a joke, that's promising.]
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[She looks around the room, though, pausing.]
I don't suppose you brought any tissues in here along with the bottle?
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[also you can't use any of the books as tissues or he'll fight you]
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Would you open the door again if I left real quick to get some?
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[She's already seen him like this.]
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[At that, she hurries out of the room to go find something that at least works as a makeshift tissue, if not a real one.]
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tw: suicide implications
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