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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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When a loved one dies, you have to commit suicide.
When a loved one dies, no other recourse remains.
But even so, if your life is long,
And the consequences of your action run deep,
The inspiration to serve will grow.
The inspiration to serve will grow.
Because a loved one has died,
Because that person is definitely gone,
Because you can’t do anything,
For their sake, for their sake,
The inspiration to serve must grow,
The inspiration to serve must grow.
[And after a long moment, long enough to know that this isn't part of the poetry:]
The difference is that I decided against it.
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The inspiration to serve may develop.
But there is nothing special you can do.
If it’s a book, more attention given than before.
Or politeness extended to people more than before.
You keep a proper tempo when walking,
You weave your strips of straw piously –
Almost as if you are a toy soldier,
Almost as if every day is a Sunday.
Strolling in swatches of sun around the shrine,
You smile if you run into someone you know,
You befriend the old candy vendor,
Sprinkle treats around you for the pigeons,
And when you seek shade from the light,
You study the earth and flora there
The moss exudes quite a coolness,
And today is wonderful beyond words.
Worshipers are walking by in droves,
And I find myself completely at peace.
(A fleeting dream indeed, our lives,
With the beauty of a balloon.)
Climbing into the sky, shining, disappearing –
Hello there, how are you doing today?
It’s been a while, how have things been?
Why don’t we find a place to have some tea?
We enter the tea shop in good spirits,
But our talk is of the idle sort.
Smoking our cigarettes gloomily,
With an indescribable resignation –
While outside, an absolute commotion!
– I guess I’ll see you later, regards to the wife.
If you go abroad, please keep in touch.
Try not to drink too much, ok.
Carriages are passing, trams are passing too.
Our lives, like a bride indeed.
So bright, so beautiful, a coy drop of the head,
Would it be too much to get her to talk?
Either way, it’ll gratify the heart.
Our lives, indeed like a bride.
Ok, everybody, without being overly happy or overly sad,
Let’s shake hands with the proper tempo.
After all, we fully grasp that what all we are lacking
is a little honesty.
Ok, everybody, hello, all together now –
Let’s shake hands with the proper tempo.
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And? Exactly which part did you decide against?
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You've met me. Even if there's the inspiration to serve, do you really think I'm in any state to do that?
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[as that trial just proved]
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Anyway, that's not the point. The point is that basing your life philosophy off of a poem is fucking stupid.
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[After - well, Ray can probably figure out when this was written.]
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I won't judge you for falling into despair after losing someone you love. But it's an all or nothing thing—you don't get to say that it's justified only because it's you.
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Please don't die again.
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I mean, I'm already here.
[is he avoiding the actual question? maybe.]
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[Will Chuuya know if Ray dies? No. He doesn't have dad senses that strong.]
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...in exchange for that, I'll try not to die.
[Even if he doesn't think there's anything he can do as he is, a fair trade is the least he can offer.]
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I'll accept that.
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Good. ...Somebody should fix that door.