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TDM // #1
REBIRTH ALWAYS FOLLOWS DEATH
You died. Sort of. You float, sort of, blissfully unaware in a snug cocoon as both your Self and the world beyond slowly align. You're you still, you think, a hazy awareness as your eyes flutter open, and you see... nothing. A viscous substance blurs your vision, faint thrills of panic coiling around your lungs, swelling in your throat; wrapped in an ectoplasmic sheath, you're disoriented at best, frantically wondering where you are and how you wound up here. Whatever here is. Everything’s fuzzy, perception is limited, movement is restricted... and then it dawns on you, glacial down your spine, the nagging certainty that wherever you were before, you no longer exist there.
You're trapped. Your once cozy cocoon quickly becomes your prison, and an overwhelming sense of dread incites you to escape. On your own, you'll tire rapidly, weak still, unadjusted to the Netherworld's configuration. Scream loud enough and someone might come to your aid, though the process will leave you weaker still; as a new Restless, you go from the semi-sensory deprivation of the Shroud into your new existence without warning or preparation, spilling out of your protective husk breathless, confused, and naked. You're free, but at what cost.
Blink. Breathe. Find your footing. When your eyes get used to the twilight-hued ambience, you'll immediately see more Shrouds, everywhere and ripped apart like a vast nest of broken cauls. Through the emerald fog surrounding you, doors. An endless cluster of them, no frames, no jambs. Your name is carved on one of them, and you don't know how or why you know this, but you do. You'll find yourself inherently drawn to yours: maybe it's a pull, a hum, a light, a quiet sound in the static. Instinctively, you know it's safe, and you know that whatever you'll find within, calling out to you, you ought to protect... but before you run and cross the threshold, your focus wanes, and you catch something in the periphery of your vision...
You died. Sort of. You float, sort of, blissfully unaware in a snug cocoon as both your Self and the world beyond slowly align. You're you still, you think, a hazy awareness as your eyes flutter open, and you see... nothing. A viscous substance blurs your vision, faint thrills of panic coiling around your lungs, swelling in your throat; wrapped in an ectoplasmic sheath, you're disoriented at best, frantically wondering where you are and how you wound up here. Whatever here is. Everything’s fuzzy, perception is limited, movement is restricted... and then it dawns on you, glacial down your spine, the nagging certainty that wherever you were before, you no longer exist there.
You're trapped. Your once cozy cocoon quickly becomes your prison, and an overwhelming sense of dread incites you to escape. On your own, you'll tire rapidly, weak still, unadjusted to the Netherworld's configuration. Scream loud enough and someone might come to your aid, though the process will leave you weaker still; as a new Restless, you go from the semi-sensory deprivation of the Shroud into your new existence without warning or preparation, spilling out of your protective husk breathless, confused, and naked. You're free, but at what cost.
Blink. Breathe. Find your footing. When your eyes get used to the twilight-hued ambience, you'll immediately see more Shrouds, everywhere and ripped apart like a vast nest of broken cauls. Through the emerald fog surrounding you, doors. An endless cluster of them, no frames, no jambs. Your name is carved on one of them, and you don't know how or why you know this, but you do. You'll find yourself inherently drawn to yours: maybe it's a pull, a hum, a light, a quiet sound in the static. Instinctively, you know it's safe, and you know that whatever you'll find within, calling out to you, you ought to protect... but before you run and cross the threshold, your focus wanes, and you catch something in the periphery of your vision...
► I. REAP WHAT YOU SOW
a. A CLOAKED FIGURE STANDS BEFORE YOU, EERILY QUIET. It only stares, faceless, towering well over you as you struggle to find your balance on your weakened feet, the air you breathe in scorching your throat. Your senses are annoyingly muddled, and it's enough of a distraction, perhaps, to overlook your state of undress. And then it finally speaks. The Reaper. It's surprisingly polite, its voice a melodious string of low hissing notes as it calmly explains what and where you are; a Restless, citizen of the Netherworld. You were reborn here for reasons unknown, another soul among thousands with seemingly unfinished business, cursed or blessed to roam a world slowly devoured by an entropic force. Hell? Perhaps, if it suits your beliefs, though some do thrive here, and keeping Oblivium at bay is a collective effort.
Around you, others like you break out of their Shrouds, and some walk the land fully dressed, with an ease that unequivocally evokes the passage of time. They've been here for a while, and it shows. You might catch bits of conversations here and there, learn more about your new home and new purpose from eavesdropping. The Reaper that's helped you out of your cocoon is, unfortunately, a poor conversationalist, though it does point its rawboned finger towards the stormy horizon, speaking of an immense city in the far distance that shelters thousands of Restless and offers essential supplies for all. Stygia. It doesn't stay much longer: without preamble, the Reaper vanishes into a plume of indigo smoke, essentially leaving you to fend for yourself. This is your chance to reach and cross the threshold of your very own door, find some clothes, your Tethers, and a device that'll enable you to reach out to anyone willing to listen. Others like you might have answers on the Netherwork-- chattier Reapers, even. Just watch out. The moons above glisten crimson, and Badaliscus roam in especially high numbers across the Shadowlands, aggressive and carriers of plague-like diseases. If you wander, do mind the giant split in the earth as well, surrounded by blackened soil. You can't miss it, strange, guttural noises coming from its depths. A fall into a drop that steep would be deadly, as no light or hope shines at the bottom of the chasm... though l'appel du vide is nearly unbearable. Does it whisper your name?
THINGS YOU MIGHT HEAR OR OBSERVE
► some compare this place to a purgatory
► an old sage has apparently found a "stairway to heaven"
► another restless' acquaintance has recently lost their battle against their shadow and nearly killed them -- probably because they didn't have a soulmate. they now dwell in the labyrinth with other monstrosities
► some restless can be spotted laughing hysterically, or arguing with themselves
► objects never last unless reforged with a soul's essence
► the hierarchy used to send a welcome party for new arrivals but now seem reluctant to leave stygia -- maybe because new arrivals are now a daily thing, sometimes hourly
► no one seems to know what reapers truly are
► ferrymen never speak
THINGS YOU MIGHT STUMBLE UPON
► small fumaroles that emit occasional bursts of molten lava and splatter anyone nearby
► ragged open pits in the ground that spout boiling water and steam at irregular intervals
► six bones arranged in a hexagon on the ground. they appear to have been gnawed upon and bear teeth marks
► scattered rubies; if touched, they'll start shouting and demand that you "unhand them at once, varlet!!", which may attract funny looks or undesired attention
► withered trees, grass, deserted campfires, various debris, bloated corpses, and fog
► mirrors that reflect the back of the person that looks into them
► a mausoleum. the structure appears perfectly normal at first, but examination reveals that there are no doors to allow entry or exit
b. NOT ALL REAPERS ARE AMICABLE. The same cloaked figure unceremoniously yanks you out of your Shroud, a mouthful of mud and ashes as you brutally land on the ground. You feel everything all at once: the acute pain of your rebirth, the pull of your Tethers, the cacophony around you, and the dull voice in the back of your mind. You breathe, and then you don't, shackles around your neck, your wrists, the gravelly soil grazing your skin raw and bloody as you're pulled by your feet. Your screams remain unanswered, though it might catch the attention of a passerby, should they be brave enough to face your tormentor. Now would be a good time to resort to any skill you might have to free yourself, past your confusion and growing agony, lest you be carried to the Forges. It's the only thing it mentions, laughing unhinged as you approach the shores, where a brittle ship awaits you. The good news is that Reapers loathe water: splash it or try to push it overboard, a distraction that should allow you to strike in some way. The bad news is that the Tempest isn't kind to anyone, especially you, and you're sort of shackled. Rest assured that it'll fight back, tooth and claw, a scythe at its disposal as well as blood-curdling shrieks that might deafen or temporarily paralyze you. Scream for help if you've yet to get any: someone is bound to hear.
Around you, others like you break out of their Shrouds, and some walk the land fully dressed, with an ease that unequivocally evokes the passage of time. They've been here for a while, and it shows. You might catch bits of conversations here and there, learn more about your new home and new purpose from eavesdropping. The Reaper that's helped you out of your cocoon is, unfortunately, a poor conversationalist, though it does point its rawboned finger towards the stormy horizon, speaking of an immense city in the far distance that shelters thousands of Restless and offers essential supplies for all. Stygia. It doesn't stay much longer: without preamble, the Reaper vanishes into a plume of indigo smoke, essentially leaving you to fend for yourself. This is your chance to reach and cross the threshold of your very own door, find some clothes, your Tethers, and a device that'll enable you to reach out to anyone willing to listen. Others like you might have answers on the Netherwork-- chattier Reapers, even. Just watch out. The moons above glisten crimson, and Badaliscus roam in especially high numbers across the Shadowlands, aggressive and carriers of plague-like diseases. If you wander, do mind the giant split in the earth as well, surrounded by blackened soil. You can't miss it, strange, guttural noises coming from its depths. A fall into a drop that steep would be deadly, as no light or hope shines at the bottom of the chasm... though l'appel du vide is nearly unbearable. Does it whisper your name?
► some compare this place to a purgatory
► an old sage has apparently found a "stairway to heaven"
► another restless' acquaintance has recently lost their battle against their shadow and nearly killed them -- probably because they didn't have a soulmate. they now dwell in the labyrinth with other monstrosities
► some restless can be spotted laughing hysterically, or arguing with themselves
► objects never last unless reforged with a soul's essence
► the hierarchy used to send a welcome party for new arrivals but now seem reluctant to leave stygia -- maybe because new arrivals are now a daily thing, sometimes hourly
► no one seems to know what reapers truly are
► ferrymen never speak
► small fumaroles that emit occasional bursts of molten lava and splatter anyone nearby
► ragged open pits in the ground that spout boiling water and steam at irregular intervals
► six bones arranged in a hexagon on the ground. they appear to have been gnawed upon and bear teeth marks
► scattered rubies; if touched, they'll start shouting and demand that you "unhand them at once, varlet!!", which may attract funny looks or undesired attention
► withered trees, grass, deserted campfires, various debris, bloated corpses, and fog
► mirrors that reflect the back of the person that looks into them
► a mausoleum. the structure appears perfectly normal at first, but examination reveals that there are no doors to allow entry or exit
if you choose to address the netherwork directly as one of your prompts, reapers or any other npc might reply to you. otherwise, feel free to speculate with other characters!
additionally, if you wind up poisoned or injured by a badaliscus, the occasional scaleberry can sometimes be found in the shadowlands, often rotten and scattered around withered trees. you'll find this kind of information in your smartphone's database, but anyone with healing abilities could also come to your aid: just remember that magic in the netherworld is unpredictable.
lastly, if l'appel du vide is too strong for you to resist, and if no one is able to keep you from falling to your death, a reaper will eventually give you a hand, immediately poofing out of existence afterwards.
b. NOT ALL REAPERS ARE AMICABLE. The same cloaked figure unceremoniously yanks you out of your Shroud, a mouthful of mud and ashes as you brutally land on the ground. You feel everything all at once: the acute pain of your rebirth, the pull of your Tethers, the cacophony around you, and the dull voice in the back of your mind. You breathe, and then you don't, shackles around your neck, your wrists, the gravelly soil grazing your skin raw and bloody as you're pulled by your feet. Your screams remain unanswered, though it might catch the attention of a passerby, should they be brave enough to face your tormentor. Now would be a good time to resort to any skill you might have to free yourself, past your confusion and growing agony, lest you be carried to the Forges. It's the only thing it mentions, laughing unhinged as you approach the shores, where a brittle ship awaits you. The good news is that Reapers loathe water: splash it or try to push it overboard, a distraction that should allow you to strike in some way. The bad news is that the Tempest isn't kind to anyone, especially you, and you're sort of shackled. Rest assured that it'll fight back, tooth and claw, a scythe at its disposal as well as blood-curdling shrieks that might deafen or temporarily paralyze you. Scream for help if you've yet to get any: someone is bound to hear.
► II. OF SOULS & SHADOWS
a. WHETHER YOU'VE FAILED TO FREE YOURSELF OR MANAGED TO BOARD A FRIENDLIER SHIP, you won't escape the storm, a tempest within a tempest.
Grey clouds boil across the sky in a bruise-colored wall, forked lightning and thunder booming overhead. The clouds open, a black and green funnel growing down towards you. As it swirls closer, you see faces, staring out from within and screaming. Gale force winds whip the sails of your ship, debris flying through the air: glass, wood, metal. The ship sways, and you sway with it, the groans of your vessel as it's tossed about in rough waters almost deafening. It's terrifying. If you were being transported to the Forges, the Reaper quickly abandons you, leaving you to your demise. If you were lucky enough to board a safer ship, pay attention. You're holding on for dear unlife as sheets of rain slap against your face, blown off-balance by heavy gusts of wind, but you see them in the raging waves, Restless just like you, shackled and helpless in the storm. You have a choice, your first dilemma: focus your energies on saving yourself and anyone else aboard your ship, or take the wheel and navigate through the winds, screams and flotsam in order to try and rescue them. Coils of rope are available, tarps, barrels and buckets.
b. WHATEVER YOU CHOOSE OR WHEREVER YOU ARE, your Shadow might take this very ill-timed opportunity to make itself known -- if it hasn't already. You're scared, torn, tired, and maybe a little hysterical -- it knows. It's in your head. Literally. It's you, and it's not, a growing onslaught of inappropriate thoughts, impulsive and intrusive as it makes an attempt to figure you and itself out. It's never been sentient before, perhaps even unsure of its purpose for a time. And then, as you struggle against the storm, it speaks:
Deaded things slam into you, spat out of the tornado. The sight snaps you out of your daze, but you don't have time to ponder whether this eerie interlude was real. It won't speak again, never directly. You'll know it's there, viscerally, as your Self and Shadow struggle to come to grips with this new antagonistic yet symbiotic relationship. If you've never been kind to yourself before, learn how to, because it won't be.
Luckily, this whole ordeal may have left somewhat of a positive mark on you: Sparks. Two of them. It's a light buzz in the back of your mind, a tickle beneath your skin as nether magic courses through your veins, an inherent part of you now. The knowledge of what is happening to you is abstract at best, but it's there, and if necessary, you'll know how to use your newfound abilities:
Grey clouds boil across the sky in a bruise-colored wall, forked lightning and thunder booming overhead. The clouds open, a black and green funnel growing down towards you. As it swirls closer, you see faces, staring out from within and screaming. Gale force winds whip the sails of your ship, debris flying through the air: glass, wood, metal. The ship sways, and you sway with it, the groans of your vessel as it's tossed about in rough waters almost deafening. It's terrifying. If you were being transported to the Forges, the Reaper quickly abandons you, leaving you to your demise. If you were lucky enough to board a safer ship, pay attention. You're holding on for dear unlife as sheets of rain slap against your face, blown off-balance by heavy gusts of wind, but you see them in the raging waves, Restless just like you, shackled and helpless in the storm. You have a choice, your first dilemma: focus your energies on saving yourself and anyone else aboard your ship, or take the wheel and navigate through the winds, screams and flotsam in order to try and rescue them. Coils of rope are available, tarps, barrels and buckets.
b. WHATEVER YOU CHOOSE OR WHEREVER YOU ARE, your Shadow might take this very ill-timed opportunity to make itself known -- if it hasn't already. You're scared, torn, tired, and maybe a little hysterical -- it knows. It's in your head. Literally. It's you, and it's not, a growing onslaught of inappropriate thoughts, impulsive and intrusive as it makes an attempt to figure you and itself out. It's never been sentient before, perhaps even unsure of its purpose for a time. And then, as you struggle against the storm, it speaks:
Enjoying your first taste of sea-salt horrors? You can feel it, can't you. The pull. It's eating at you, subtly, but it's there. You can’t run. You can’t
get away from me either, because I’m you, and I’m just as
much a part of you as all the noble ideals you hold. All the awful
thoughts you ever entertained, all the things you were ashamed of or couldn't bring yourself to say, and all the
lies you told... that’s what I am, and you can’t make me go
away. You can’t outlive me. I’m going to remind you of
all the terrible things you did or wanted to do, and I’m going to
get you to do more of them, because you’re still
you and you still have all those nasty little urges
floating around. Only now I’m here to highlight
the opportunities you have to indulge. Don't be shy. If you won't speak your mind, I'll do it for you. If you ever considered redemption, think again. Fight me or silence me if you wish, it doesn't matter. Even if you succeed. I may go dormant for a while, but I'll always come back stronger. I'm your Shadow, and Oblivium awaits us.
Luckily, this whole ordeal may have left somewhat of a positive mark on you: Sparks. Two of them. It's a light buzz in the back of your mind, a tickle beneath your skin as nether magic courses through your veins, an inherent part of you now. The knowledge of what is happening to you is abstract at best, but it's there, and if necessary, you'll know how to use your newfound abilities:
a. Teleportation, allowing you to vanish into thin air and relocate anywhere you wish, the same way a Reaper would. Usable 4 times.
b. Mind-reading, albeit a bit murky. Think of it as a weak signal reception. Pry some information about the Netherworld out of an NPC's mind, or try to find out what a friend think of you. Lasts 12 hours.
► III. THE ETERNAL CITY
IF YOU'VE ELECTED TO REACH STYGIA INSTEAD OF MATERIALIZING BACK INTO YOUR HOME IN THE SHADOWLANDS, you'll be welcomed by fishermen in the Harbors, and most of them seem... well, a little annoyed, honestly. Additional mouths to feed, and all that. Stygia has been at max capacity for decades, and resources aren't always easily obtained. But they were like you, once -- freshly undead, overwhelmed -- and if they sigh and glower as you pass by, quick to dismiss you, you'll soon be guided towards what seems to be a Notice Board, a map of Stygia pinned just below. Make yourself useful, you're told. If you hope to survive here, better start by earning your keep!
If you're injured, you're out of luck. Hale is currently off-limits -- a collapse, apparently -- but poultices can be found in the Marketplace, bandages, etc. The only problem is... you have no coin, and not much to barter with. Pick a job from the Notice Board if you're willing, or find shelter in Serene: most people there will welcome you into their homes, so long as you don't overstay said welcome. Alternatively, if you ask around, a fellow Restless might be able to help you. Steal if you wish, though be warned that there might be consequences.
Meanwhile, if the thought of returning to the Shadowlands is a little overwhelming for now, you will come across empty buildings and houses all over Stygia, most of them in varying states of repair. They're yours for the taking, if you don't mind cob-webs or shattered windows, but all you have is time now, and a little renovation can go a long way!
As you explore your new environment, you might start experiencing odd and subtle changes...
If you're injured, you're out of luck. Hale is currently off-limits -- a collapse, apparently -- but poultices can be found in the Marketplace, bandages, etc. The only problem is... you have no coin, and not much to barter with. Pick a job from the Notice Board if you're willing, or find shelter in Serene: most people there will welcome you into their homes, so long as you don't overstay said welcome. Alternatively, if you ask around, a fellow Restless might be able to help you. Steal if you wish, though be warned that there might be consequences.
Meanwhile, if the thought of returning to the Shadowlands is a little overwhelming for now, you will come across empty buildings and houses all over Stygia, most of them in varying states of repair. They're yours for the taking, if you don't mind cob-webs or shattered windows, but all you have is time now, and a little renovation can go a long way!
As you explore your new environment, you might start experiencing odd and subtle changes...
ooc note
► Welcome to Nightfell's very first TDM! All threads can be considered game canon and may be used as samples if you choose to apply.
► Check out the Notice Board for additional prompts!
► For your convenience: Bestiary, Glossary, Setting.
► If you still have questions regarding the game in general, please refer to the FAQ. For questions specific to the TDM, ask them below!
► We hope you enjoy your first experience in Nightfell!
no subject
Shouldn't be far.
Do I need to describe myself?
Not that I'm difficult to miss.
no subject
i'm the girl standing by the flowerpot
no subject
( more or less. the only other person he's seen that might be taller was also green.
it doesn't take long to wrap up his business in the market. finding someone willing to take the talking rubies had been a challenge, but while he was certainly desperate, he was not going to sink low enough to start barking on camera.
but back to the café: it can't be longer than fifteen minutes before he pulls up at the door, a bag slung over his shoulder, eyes scanning the crowd. it turns out there are several flowerpots, but only one of them comes with an anxious teenager attached. )
Nice place. Quaint.
no subject
[ again.
alina straightens from where she slouches against the door, dropping her hands to her sides like she's been caught with her hand in the cookie jar. there's something military about it. ]
You could have told me it was you. [ he must have recognized the name she used, surely. in retrospect, maybe that was a mistake. arrogance, on her part. but she hadn't considered being careful of him — or anyone else. she'd been reckless in her death. ]
no subject
long fingers curls around the strap of his bag. he glances away briefly toward the door as if checking for whomever she's referring to. )
I don't know who that is.
( frank and honest. there's a flatness to his accent, a lack of inflexion, that becomes apparent the more he speaks. )
Though now I'm curious.
no subject
his voice is different, the accent foreign. and close enough, she sees now that he's too tall. aleksander always looms, but it's as much his presence as anything. just like ivan.
there are other things, little things — there is no softness in his eyes, nor shadow. his hair is styled differently, or perhaps shorter? she can't be sure.
and yet he could be confused for a mirror. she shakes her head. ]
You look just like him.
no subject
( while he'd never considered himself a particularly vain man, the thought is still unnerving.
he shakes his head, and breathes out. no point dwelling on it right now. )
Look, I'm still willing to take you out to the fissure. But I need to pick up some coffee grounds first.
no subject
[ now she definitely feels like she fell into a parallel universe. which, well. yeah. ]
no subject
( and then, because that makes no sense without context: ) It's for a job.
no subject
[ her head tilts slightly. isn't it expensive??? you have to ship that from overseas.
well. maybe not in the netherworld. she looks over her shoulder at the door to the bakery — well, the café, but she doesn't have that word for it. well. she pulls open the door for him and gestures inside. ]
But by all means.
no subject
( or just killing them. which had been what he'd advocated for. it's just that the guy he was doing the job with decided to get precious about it.
anyway — a tip of his head toward alina, in thanks, and then he's stepping through the door of the café proper. as expected, the interior is every bit as homey as the exterior had promised.
and it's bustling.
there's a small counter in the back. a girl with turquoise-streaked hair behind it, taking orders. aristaeus raps his knuckles against the glass when it's his turn, focus drifting toward the menu. )
I'll have a pound of whatever's cheapest.
no subject
[ envy simmers under the words. alina's feet are not nearly so well under her. she's floundering in denial and panic and disorientation. meanwhile, this man — not aleksander, somehow — has already considered how to get money with which to buy coffee beans.
alina tucks her hands, a little sourly, into the pockets of her borrowed sweater, the one with holes wearing into its elbows. ]
no subject
( if you excuse everything between his first hours of waking and his arrival in the city.
the girl disappears into one of the back rooms. aristaeus' attention shifts back to his companion, skipping right past the sour look to more pressing matters. with a wave of his hand, he gestures at first the menu and then the glass cases. it's not an abundant variety ㅡ muffins, mostly ㅡ but they're a decent size and probably fresh. ) Do you want anything?
( she can't have been hovering around outside this place solely for his benefit. )
no subject
[ she straightens her back. shakes her head. stops gawking at one of the scones and thinking about how nice food sounds when she hasn't really eaten much since she got here. ]
I'm alright. [ her smile is threadbare and grim. she turns away from the glass case of baked goods, fixes her gaze out the window instead. ] This is a quaint little shop, isn't it? The whole city.
[ it certainly doesn't feel dead. that's what she's getting at, what she can't bring herself to say outright as she tries to derail from her growling stomach. ]
no subject
( the tone is dry enough to crack bone. a better person would be delicate, here, careful. they would, at least, acknowledge all the reasons she might have for being wary of the offer. give assurances.
but they're on a time crunch, and he's never had the patience for delicate. )
So, let me rephrase: what are you having? Because we'll be out there for a while, I'm not carrying you back if you faint from low blood sugar.
no subject
it's her pride, then, that he's harmed. too proud to admit that she is somehow not adapting as deftly as he is. starting a fight in this café would only exacerbate it. so though she puffs up like she's ready to explode at him, she holds that breath, sits with it a moment and simply smolders. it doesn't fully suffocate the embers of her anger, but — ]
The peach danish. [ she points, sourly. and she tells herself it's not because he'd ordered her, only because she was hungry, and she hopes he knows it too. ]
no subject
nevermind, he's got at least eight inches on her easy and is more than capable of using every one of them. but she's giving him what he wants, so he's inclined to be generous — ) Peach danish for my friend, and uh... ( a quick glance at the display, settling on a row of savoury muffins the look like they'd be solid enough to stave off the hunger pangs for a few hours.
he never expected to be longing for a ration bar, but here they are. ) one of those.
And to answer your question — no, I don't know what's going on here, but I'm pretty sure the great hereafter involves a lot less slime.
no subject
[ she asks, while the barista wraps paper around their pastries and tucks them into a cardboard box. rings them all up. ]
It's not like you've died before.
[ that's not how death works. once it happens, it's final. an ending. you can't un-die and have some sense of what it's like. that's how she knows this can't be it. this isn't an ending. if there was a way into this place, there's a way out. ]
no subject
( it's the first thing he tends to notice, anyway. that soft hum of bio-electricity.
digging out a few coins to pay, he spares the barista a brief smile that says: nothing to see here. she reciprocates a little uncertainly and holds out their parcel. )
I don't think I've ever met a dead man with an appetite. ( he hands the parcel to alina and turns to leave. )
no subject
What's a limbic system? [ she asks, opening the top of the cardboard box haphazardly. ] Does that mean you don't think we're really dead, either?
[ it's what she wants to hear. someone else who believes it's possible, who hasn't just accepted the purported respite of this place. someone else who cannot rest. maybe they're just deluding each other. maybe. ]
no subject
It's the part of your brain that controls appetite. ( among other things. things that are irrelevant for the moment because what she really seems to want from him is assurance. which is — a bizarre kind of whiplash.
he's not the person people come to for comfort. )
I know we're not dead. ( his tone is even, certain. he believes this because it's true. because there is no way under the sun that he was killed by a scared girl with what amounted to a sharpened butter knife. ) But that doesn't change the fact that we're stuck here for the foreseeable future.
no subject
For now.
[ 'foreseeable future' makes it sound so ominous. prolonged. she doesn't want it to be either of those things, so she simply rejects it. ]
Here. [ she makes a face as she hands over his bran muffin. it doesn't look particularly appetizing, although it's at least still warm. ] Do you want this now or after we get out to the Shadowlands?
no subject
( he nods, agreeing. this is a finite thing. impermanent. survivable. everything is, at its heart, survivable and perhaps that is why he does not panic. does not fear.
as long as he's breathing, there's a way out of this. it's just a matter of finding the key.
he takes the muffin from her, biting into it as they walk. chews and then swallows. what it lacks in flavour, it more than makes up for in texture. a pleasant weight on his stomach.
he might have to visit again sometime. )
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she takes greedy bites of the danish. flaky, buttery crumbs stick to her lips and cheeks and fingers. the macerated peaches are sweet, and the cheese makes the flavor stick to her tongue. it lingers in the crooks of her teeth.
they eat and walk, and when the danish and the muffin are gone, and the box has been folded up into a trash can, they just walk. out to the shadowlands. back out to their graves and their doors and the monsters. to fields of blackened soil pocked by cocoons.
alina's expression grows dark as the land does. ] I hate it here. Even the earth looks miserable.
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( and yet, life persists somehow. despite the odds. there's probably something to that — damn if he has the faintest idea, though. )
They look a bit like eggs, don't they? ( said with a nod toward the cocoons. he hadn't been in a position to appreciate their strangeness before, but now he can't help but notice.
drawing closer, it becomes clear that the thing is pulsing. the light is soft, steady. like a heartbeat. he searches for a sign of whatever — whomever — it might contain. )
Not sure I'd want to meet whatever laid them, though.
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(cw: suicidal ideation)
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