[MU] - DECEMBER STORYTELLING / MEMORY SHARE

[lifeaftr_mods]

Something is wrong.

This may not very well be obvious, at first. The Storyteller is not present to put forth yet another diatribe, informative or apologetic, and the backdrop of guttering flame and sandy campfire is as present as ever...albeit briefly.



Those who tell their stories will start to notice something...odd taking place. Indeed, no matter how they intend to begin their tale, the land of Mu will immediately start to warp to accommodate it, or something utterly unlike it, until storytellers and listeners alike may find themselves in an exact recreation of a seemingly random memory, in the most stark and painstaking of detail. There is no altering the memory, nor is there any preventing it once it's begun to play - you will simply have to witness memories that are not your own this go around.

Furthermore, stories that take place in worlds other than LifeAftr will be, frankly, inevitable. Those memories, too, will be recreated, to be relived by the teller and lived by the listener.

---

It is time, once more, for you to tell a story...with a slight twist! This is, in fact, our first player plot, as provided by Dragon! The initial setting will be familiar for oldcomers, and newcomers will recognize it from the introduction they received in their dreams.

Yet for this Storytelling only, people can imagine whatever stories they wish, from both their homes and their time on LifeAftr, as long as they don't mind the fact that others will be reliving those stories in the form of an impromptu memory share.

Even those who prefer not to voice their stories aloud are not safe this time around. If the memory is recalled in essence, Mu will shift to accommodate it in full.

There is, however, a benefit to this: those who venture memories to be relived will receive both a befuddled apology from the Storyteller, who will assert that this was most definitely not meant to happen (they're the Storyteller, not the Rememberer!), as well as a tired promise that the relived memories will be worth two offerings each, as if in compensation.

Not that it counts for much, probably.

Comments

[demonpuppy]

Chip can barely move. Their gaze is fixed upon the crackling fire, feeling just as much a ghost as they had in the memory that played for...they've all seen. They all saw, now they all know. The sort of person they are, the darkness they are never going to escape. When Tim settles beside them they flinch and pull away, heart beating a mile a minute before they recognize who he is.

Their shoulders hunch up, and they curl inward.

"...he was trying to make me better."

[postictal]

"There's nothing anyone has to make better about you, kid." It's paired with a glance in their direction, tearing his look away from the ghosting flames - not stern, not unkind, but undeniably resolute in his conviction.

He never even looked their way. Not even once. Didn't bother. Just made his disdain for everything they were perfectly fucking evident in every tiny, disgusted movement.

It turns his stomach.

"You're not broken." A shadow passes over his features, his gaze flicking away. The fire's safer to look at. Passive. More neutral. "And anybody who treats you like you are is wrong, okay?"

They're just a kid. They're just a goddamn kid.

And he's had it with kids growing up feeling like they're broken.

[demonpuppy]

It's not that they don't know these things. It's not that they haven't heard it, haven't been bathed in warm caring even before they reached these strange shores. It's just...

"I'd be better if I was." Their grip on their arms tightens, and if Tim looks their eyes have gone dark once more. Something in the air twists around them, but at the same time does not. "I'm exactly what my blood makes me. He was right about me."

[postictal]

"Yeah?" He lifts his eyebrows at them, slow and even.

He's seen black eyes before - literal and otherwise - and kids who carry a strange and uncertain energy in their hearts. So maybe they've got something a little twisted settled inside them. It's not like they asked for it. It's not like they set out to carry it with them.

"So how come I'm not scared of you?"

[demonpuppy]

"You..."

What can they say? He doesn't know? He doesn't understand the sort of things they could do? That's a lie and they both know it, but what else could they even say?

"...you're dumb."

[postictal]

He huffs softly at that, almost a snort. Almost.

"Okay, well, you're not wrong there, but that doesn't really negate my point." He's dumb. Sure. He never finished college, he could barely scrape by with a job, and he fell into easy traps with as much simplicity as Jay did. Too stupid to be afraid, though?

If nothing else, he's very good at being afraid.

"I've seen scary before, kid. You're not it."

[demonpuppy]

Something clenches tightly in their chest, and their shoulders inch up a little higher, their expression screwing up into something--they're not sure if they want to cry or punch Tim right in the face.

"Only 'cuz I'm trying. You know how much I hurt people at home? How scared Mom was of me?" Why else would they have been taunted and mocked by their classmates, have fought and bitten and cursed as a matter of course rather than a last resort? "I--I almost killed someone, you know that? They had to pull me offa him before I cut his--his stupid ugly throat!"

They're shouting now, the aura of warped space around them curdling into colors that defy description. They grit their teeth, digging their nails into their arms just to keep from making yet another stupid mistake. Tears streak down their face, and their voice cracks with raw grief and loathing. "He was the one with the knife, and I still would have got him! I-I didn't need anything!"

[postictal]

"Hey. Hey." He half-turns, adjusting so he's looking them dead on, sat back on his haunches instead of sitting with his back against a log. Part of him wants to reach out - put a hand to their shoulder, to the back of their head, to one of the hands that have started clawing at the skin of their arms, just because they look so bereft and so unmoored.

He knows better. He knows better than to impose on a child's space. He knows better than to invade someone's privacy.

"People who tell you that you're scary?" says Tim slowly, carefully, quiet and measured through gritted teeth. "That doesn't mean you're scary. That says a hell of a lot more about them, okay, than it does about you."

Freak. Violent. Dangerous, too dangerous to be allowed around normal people. He'll hurt himself. He'll hurt others. Look at him. You can't trust him. You can't trust that he won't have a relapse, and then what would we do with him?

"People aren't born scary, kid," he says softly. "People who're told that - that's something that's done to them."