aftr_stories | [MU] - DECEMBER STORYTELLING / MEMORY SHARE

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[MU] - DECEMBER STORYTELLING / MEMORY SHARE

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.

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

Reply to this comment, having filled out the corresponding form, to note the number of memories your character has had explored in this event.

Remember that for this event only, the memory can be from whichever point in time you like; as long as it has not been told as a story before now, it will count. Also, please be advised that we will not be accepting handwaved non-compulsory AC this time - you must include a write-up of your memory on the post for it to count for double the offerings!

Leave a top-level here containing the memory or memories for your character(s)!

[Please be advised that the following contains themes of hospitalization/institutionalization, child neglect, and arson. The third prompt in particular involves references to violence and neck trauma.]

Edited 2017-12-20 05:09 (UTC)

[Each memory will have its own subthread--please feel free to comment to more than one if you like, I'm all for it!]

[content warning: please be advised that the second prompt contains mentions of executions and mild body horror, while the fourth prompt contains description of corpses and character death!]

[the full thread of this can be found here!]]

You’re reading in the shade when she finds you. Outside, where the sun shines… you expect no one who knows you well to seek you out there, which is fine. Which is the point. The memory of last night threatens to press in on you, and despite your exhaustion, you keep it at bay as you read Kitchen again, for what feels like the millionth time. You barely need to look at the page to know what the next line will be, making for a peaceful… but almost boring way to pass the time. You’re so tired, you almost consider dozing off.

Or you were, until she approaches you. You smile, because she does not know you too well. And you smile because her presence isn’t entirely unwanted, this strange human girl who has yet to comment on your age and appearance, always willing to take your words and guidance into consideration. Rin Tohsaka is… the perfect individual to approach a war with. Smart. Far too smart.

She remarks about the heat, the temptation to go swimming in the duck pond. You tell her that’s disgusting, in so many words, and she teases you for being a germaphobe. Whatever. You’re not the one looking to pick up diseases from pond scum.

“Relying on magic for everything will only get you in trouble one day.” You tell her.

“I don’t, usually.” She says just as easily in turn, resting back against the grass. “I didn’t use it to make your present, for example.”

She fusses with something for a moment, turning round to present you with two closed palms, telling you to pick one. But you can’t. In that moment, you feel frozen, stuck. With a myriad of conflicting thoughts and suspicions that lead you to asking one question.

“Why?”

You are not that close. She doesn't owe you anything, though she explains that she feels she does. That she knows she wasn’t there last night. That something happened. Your throat closes up over a laugh, and you can’t tell her that it’s to her benefit that she wasn’t there. Can’t tell her that if she was, you might have killed her, just for that.

Just for existing.

But you don’t- want to think about that, right now. Casting those shadows away again, you make your choice, breaking open the fortune cookie she gives you with some reluctance (if you could, if she wasn’t here, you’d preserve it. Tuck it away in a draw with a heart-shaped locket and a black knife, the first gift you’d ever received, and one of the few gifts you’d ever given), huffing a laugh at the admittedly poor joke written there- If you're reading this, you're literate. Congratulations. As you laugh, she makes a comment about the back of the paper, and turning it around, you find one word.

“Bookmark?”

“Bookmark.” Rin, repeats with a smile, holding out something for you to take. It’s…

It’s a bookmark, yes. Made of a see-through plastic, you lightly hold it at the edges, staring at what’s been trapped within. Dried and pressed, the echo flowers still emit a soft glow. Rin, of course, doesn't really know. She knows that they were a request of Chara's, they know that it's their one, little piece of home that the child had called in.

She has no idea that it's the last they ever expect to see. One, final gift to themself, so when they die they can leave something behind. An impression that maybe... people who aren't aware of the connection between flower and child would still-

“Thank you.”

She didn’t...have to do this. She’s not indebted to you, regardless of what she might think, and yet…

And yet.

[Likewise each memory will have their own subthread. Please reply to whichever (or however many) you prefer! Specific content warnings in each subthread but general content warnings (especially for prompts two and three) for psychological and some body horror along with death/reference to death]

Edited 2017-12-20 05:08 (UTC)

Every breath is agony. You have one arm pressed to your side as tightly as possible- and whilst it doesn’t stop the all encompassing waves of pain shooting from your ribs and up your spine like fire, you can move, somehow. You can’t not move, right now. You have to keep going.

The sun came up an hour ago. Someone is going to find it soon. Someone is going to see what you’ve done.

And then they’re going to come for you.

It’s hard, even with that motivation, to concentrate. On the pretty surroundings of the tree covered mountain-side around you. It wavers in your vision, with every ungainly step, every motion that just causes more burning agony, and your arm remains the only brace to hinder the damage (you heard a crack. You heard at least one, and your ribs don’t look right. Your side was black, when you paused to look under the blood soaked sweater adorning your torso), and you’re afraid that if you let up that pressure, it will be enough to send you crashing to the ground-- and who knows?

You might not get back up.

The mountain’s incline, getting sharper and sharper, the further you go, just makes this all the more difficult. Of course it does. It’s a mountain, but you’ve made your choice. You are not stopping now.

You’re… you’re not stopping now.

But you have to stop for a second. Air is a necessary factor to motion, and you’re struggling to gain that much. As an excuse for the pause, you look down at yourself, noting that at least… the blood coating most of your front is… dry, at this point. Your lips wobble with the disctint urge to smile, a somewhat hysterical giggle bubbling past your lips.

Your ribs make you regret that, near immediately.

And then it’s time to keep going. There’s no path for you to follow, just patches between the trees and undergrowth that you slowly navigate your way around, hyper aware of every little stone and bump ahead of you- anything with the potential to make you stumble and fall. And throughout it all, you feel somewhat-- outside of this moment. As if there were someone else moving your limbs, as if the world itself, for all it’s bright, vibrant colors, was distorted by the constant ringing in your ears. Your jaw also aches, and you wonder how you could possibly feel that when you’re almost certain half your side has caved in.

And there’s no one around, anymore, to tell you off for laughing at that. No one to look down the end of their nose, to press their lips together in a manner that tells you- you’re in for it, later. No more expectations, no more pressure. You are alone, and it is, perhaps, the most freeing moment of your short life.

Then the ground starts levelling out. Your shoes meet a lip of rock, taking the focus of your eyes from the few feet immediately ahead of you to what you’ve found, no matter how coincidental. A cave.

The opening is wide, and vast- and altogether a little threatening, despite the fact that natural light appears to be pouring in from somewhere inside. For someone not looking to be found, it’s the perfect hideaway.

And you are certainly not looking to be found.

[Memories in the sub threads below! Feel free to comment on more then one if you like. CW for mild suicidal ideation in the 4th (Chapter 2) part.]

Edited 2017-12-20 05:07 (UTC)

[Please be advised that the following contains references to child death.]

The first scene is simple, and small, and normal.

A healthy baby boy gurgles in his crib, not even a year old. A mother beams, and hums along to the chime of a music box on the dresser. She reaches down to tickle at him, and his tiny hand grasps at her finger without strength, without coordination, but with an earnest needing that only a baby can possess.

"Gabe," says his mother, fondly. "Gabriel."

The baby utters a feeble little burp of sound, as if in reply, and she laughs. Her name flares in the head of the witness like a wave of warm scarlet, lit in neon and gold:

Diana.

...Mom.

[The first tale was that of a memory which had nearly been forgotten.]

[Some of it was blurred as if the early morning dawn over a desert--scarred by scorchmarks and remnants of a battlefield--were painted in watercolor carelessly running together. The hastily constructed canopy in the middle of the scarred earth remained clear, however--as did the young man standing beneath it. Barely older than twenty, he was slender and wearing a greatsword nearly as tall as he was in a sheath on his back. Wine-red hair in an artfully disheveled ponytail was pushed from hazel eyes as he spoke to the group of injured soldiers and civilians alike; marred by sand and ash, he looked as though he'd been fighting just as hard as the scattered survivors. And much like the blurred surroundings, his voice was unclear as if heard from underwater and over a great distance.]

[Whatever was being said, the young redhead gestured enthusiastically with both arms (a familiar sort of dramatics that would someday be refined into smoother and more theatrical motions) while a taller swordsman with long silver hair and diagonal scars cut across his face stood at the boy's side in silence. This near-forgotten memory was the tale of a war that had long since been lost to the passage of time. The story of a brightly smiling young man whose very existence had been eroded along with the decay of sanity. Even now the sense of purpose and confidence that radiated off the smaller swordsman felt as if it were experienced through a thick filter.]

[Despite that, the events unfolding were clear as day; a small gathering of people around what amounted to a base camp after a terrible battle. Most of them suffered pitch-black marring their skin like a terrible rash. One after another they approached the young man with the greatsword, and one after another he would take their hands in both of his own. A gentle and warm glow like sunlight manifested at the redhead's touch, and with it the plague within their skin would slowly recede and drain away as though it had never been there at all. The silver-haired man at his side rarely seemed to speak, looking to the healer while the formerly afflicted offered endless praise and gratitude--as relieved as if they'd been pulled from the very brink of death at no more than a touch.]

There...that was not so terrible, Gilgamesh. [The healer pulled his sleeve down over black markings on his own skin, running like cracks in a pane of glass. He looked paler now that all was said and done, tired and worn down yet still smiling.] As long as we establish proper lighting by nightfall, the daemons shan't return. [It was a familiar voice which could finally be heard clearly from the healer, once the last few cured had at last dispersed. Lacking in the perpetual tone of mockery and arrogance, but unmistakably the voice of-]

Ardyn-! [Before the scarred swordsman could answer, another voice cut in. The healer turned at the sound of his name in the one voice he knew better than any other...]

[...to be met with an identical face strained by worry, hazel eyes made too bright by lingering adrenaline. Usually the more put-together of the two, the recent battle had left Ardyn's near-mirror image just as disheveled, shorter red hair cast haphazardly out of place in much the same manner.]

You needn't shout, I am right here. [Ardyn quickly closed the distance to lightly grip the other redhead's shoulders and smoothing sand-dusted hair from his eyes, finding his identical twin blessedly uninjured and without visible infection.] And you are just who I wished to see. I need you to start back toward the city to deliver word of the night's events. And please, fetch supplies so I might begin extending the power grid; we need an outpost here to protect those that might not reach the capital before dark.

[In the distance, the spires of a highly advanced city's skyline reached past the clouds, so high that even the occasional airship which drifted through the clear and bright skies passed by rather than over them. It stood proud in stone and metal as a magnificent beacon of the civilization for which it served as capital: Solheim.]

I...yes, of course I can do that. If you're to remain here for today I shall borrow Philomela and be there within the hour. [said the second brother, scrambling to cover what looked like uncertainty.] But Ardyn, are you not tired? You-

[A light laugh cut off the other twin's concerned protest, Ardyn grinning brighter than the morning sunlight as he guided his brother towards a waiting black chocobo.]

You've nothing to fear, Izunia. I've Gilgamesh to look after me, so you need not let my safety cloud your thoughts. Once we've everything in hand here, then I promise you we can return home and rest before setting out once more.

[Izunia smiled, though it was a hesitant and worried gesture. They said their farewells and the younger twin set off for the magnificent skyline; leaving Ardyn's smile to fade slowly. The confidence he'd shown the crowd and the genuine joy and relief at seeing his brother were retreating, overtaken by a deep and cold exhaustion with a chill settling itself deep into his body as the scourge he had taken from others grew twisting roots in the healer's blood. Gripping the arm that bore hidden black markings beneath fabric, he spoke quietly as to be heard only by Gilgamesh.]

...have they gone? Is anyone within sight, is my brother-?

No one. [The man with silver hair stepped closer, bracing a gentle hand in a clawed gauntlet against Ardyn's back as if he knew what was coming next.] One and all have turned to salvage and recovery in the wake of the night's horrors.

Ah--that's truly a relief to hear. [His tone drifted vaguely as the scenery began to blur and run together even more drastically than before. Astrals, there was so much work to do and yet he was so tired. Ardyn's legs buckled and he fell against Gilgamesh's side, the swordsman moving to catch the young man as if this was a completely expected thing all along.]

[The last thing the healer was aware of, as the blurred-watercolor scene ran together and began to fade into the fire and darkness of the island...was a gauntleted hand brushing hair from his eyes, and a gently comforting tune hummed by a sworn protector.]

Edited (wrong line oops) 2017-12-20 05:39 (UTC)

The streetlights blur into linear streaks, smeared against the dark glass of the car as it drives too fast. The man's face is strained, taut, worried. The woman - her black coat thrown over her blue nightgown - clutches an infant. He'd cried. He'd cried for hours, thrashing, squalling, and no amount of murmuring or soothing or stroking or holding would quiet him. She slept in his room, but still, he cried.

Until one morning he stopped.

He's so still, when they hurry him inside. The hospital doors whisk open to accommodate them, and the doctors are there in an instant. The last thing he hears from his mother is a desperate, wordless cry, too distraught to even form his name with her lips. The man beckons her close. He keeps her up when she looks so fragile, so lost, like he's the only thing in the world that grounds her here. She clings to him without knowing what she does, her gaze roving, restless. The tear tracks glint beneath the harsh glare of the hospital lights, stark and bleak. The halls smell of antiseptic. The tiles glow underfoot.

The time that passes is, in essence, hours. Streamlined by the grooves of memory, compressed down into a selection of moments: the pain that defined the life of Gabriel Goodman, depthless and agonizing and displayed in a context he could never understand. A pain that flared in his middle with a vengeance and set him screaming, screaming, screaming, but would soon leave him quiet, so very, very quiet.

The doctors missed it. The clinic, the specialist, the ER. They said, "he has food allergies." They said, "babies cry."

He doesn't toss fitfully. He doesn't worry the blankets. He lies there, eighteen months old, ice-cold, and is still. The resuscitation is too late.

The medicine failed.

The doctors lied.

There's quiet in the hospital room. Disappointment, weariness, and silent resignation, until one of them speaks with solemn professionalism.

"Someone's going to have to tell the family."

[All memories will have their own top levels. Respond to whatever you choose to.]

"My name is Chara D... Mn."

And a stutter to end the sentence. Kind of. More like your lips wobble in something vaguely resembling another word, and try as you might, you can't seem to get it out from where it's gotten lodged in your throat.

But that's fine. It's fine. Toriel's helping Asriel get ready in the lounge, Asgore's making tea. This far down the corridor, someone might see you, but no one would guess at what you're doing, standing at the mirror.

Maybe you're just admiring your clothes. Purple looks okay on you...vaguely. The Delta Rune is stitched proudly over your chest, and your hand flutters over the mark almost helplessly. You're royalty, aren't you? You're royalty. Because you're-

"My...my name is Chara... Dreemurr." Immediately, you tense, throat closing up and eyes drifting towards the kitchen. But there's no god to smite you down. No jovial, fluffy monster comes running down the hall, voice booming with anger as you completely and utterly besmirch their name. The word's finally loosened from your throat- your heart takes it's place.

You wait in silence as it pounds away, blood rushing to your cheeks as you stare back at your own reflection; too pale, too thin, hair- neat. Because Toriel cut it for you. Mrs... Mrs Dreemom cut it. And then she gave you some tea and a piece of chocolate at the end, commending your bravery even as you sat at the kitchen table rebuking yourself internally, because who shakes like a leaf at a haircut? The back of the scissors had brushed your ear only the once, and you'd thought, in that long moment; this is it. This is how I die.

Asriel's laughter filters down from the sitting room, high pitched and childish. Accompanied by Toriel's loving chuckles, and you breathe. Exhale, inhale once more. Your hand stops it's nervous flight about the stitched rune on their chest, clutching at the fabric to feel the shape of the metal hidden beneath.

"M-my name is Chara Dreemurr."

God is very slow today. You're still standing.

It's funny. The smile on your face, it almost looks-

Deep breath. You straighten your shoulders, raise your chin. Think hard about how Toriel carries herself, the poise in every motion and the elegance of her words. She is regal; she is a queen. And you are her child, and-- Asgore's child, and Asriel's sibling. You are.

You are.

"Greetings.

My name is Chara Dreemurr."

In the mirror, you watch as the smile on your face widens, a pleased warmth running through your chest that eases tense, stiff shoulders, and you would almost be inclined to call your appearance... pleasant.

You've never considered it before.

-1- A painful reminder

[ "You really won't listen? You'd really listen to her rather than me? After everything?"

Yuka's first memory takes whoever is witnessing it along with her to a beautiful, alien landscape. Everything is made of crystal - trees rise in diamond branches, everything spirals in on itself in intricate glittering fractals. Beneath all of the glamour, though, it does resemble a scene out of the modern world - some of those crystal spires appear to have originally been lamp posts, as if this is a crystalized city park.

In this memory, an oppressive rain pours down over the sparkling hills. A short distance away, the actual scene plays out - Yuka and Kyouko are both there, but instead of their usual close-knit affection, they're facing off against each other as enemies.

"...Goodbye, Reflector Heart."

Yuka's powers in this memory seem radically different from what they are now. As she says farewell to her closest friend, a black circle spreads across the ground at her feet. A vine made of shadows rises from within, wraps itself around Kyouko's wrist, and hurls her with incredible force. She lands painfully, in a heap of mud and shattered crystal.

"Stop it! I don't want to fight you! I thought we were supposed to be partners, weren't we?! We're supposed to be fighting together, not each other!"

The duel goes on, a lot of the words exchanged left ambiguous by the lack of context. Kyouko pushes onward relentlessly, determined to get through to Yuka despite the countless dark vines lashing out at the world around her. Eventually, she will, but even then, this was never something that could be neatly resolved for good with hugs or encouraging words. It was never that simple.

The whole memory plays out less like something being experienced directly, and more like watching the events play out as a bystander. The real Yuka watches on from the sidelines quietly, a resigned expression on her face. She speaks, as much to the world as to anyone in particular. ]

Why would you show me this now? Did you really think there was any chance that I'd forget about what I did...?

-2- It's her brother or something

[ The other memory is a much more mundane one; however, Yuka doesn't even appear to be present for it.

The scene is pretty straightforward - it's Kyouko and Yuka's first meeting. Yuka alone on the school roof, trying to teach herself ballroom dancing off of youtube videos, followed by Kyouko walking in on her unexpectedly. It was an embarrassing incident, and a little ridiculous, but Kyouko pushed past the weirdness of the moment and the two got to talking like friends pretty quickly.

The only thing is... well, this was before they were Reflectors. So, to an unfamiliar observer, it just looks like Kyouko meeting some tall boy who's never appeared in this world. Regardless, the real Yuka - this time watching from just elsewhere on the same roof - looks to be in full-on panic mode, as if anyone seeing seeing this will cause her to burst into flames. Frantically, she tries to think of how to get out of having to explain this should anyone ask... ]

[[OOC: Conveniently, these backstory scenes have both been threaded out on museboxes in the past! The exact details have changed slightly (specifically the mechanics of Paragon Diamond's plan), but if you're curious, the general flow of the action can be checked out here for scene 1 and here for scene 2.

Yuka's memories are materializing in the third person - anyone who shows up for them will see them as if they were there as bystanders, along with Real Yuka.]]

Edited 2017-12-20 17:23 (UTC)

[cw: mentions of execution, mild body horror implications]

[Some tales were told not in explicit words, but in thought and feeling, in ancient history brought forth from dusty historical tomes and ancient oil paintings breathed to life from the walls upon which they hung in reverence. Some memories were fractured and scattered, like the shards of a mirror broken in a fit of rage.]

[This was the tale of one discarded, who discarded such memories in turn.]

[A terrible war was waged in fire and the pitch-black malice of a god's wrath given form, a shining silver city brought to ruin beneath the crush of a meteor that shook the planet to its core to leave a miles-long crater and twisted rock formations in the continent. The magnificent and advanced civilization of Solheim was destroyed utterly, a god of fire struck down upon a volcano, and a single mortal hero at the end of it all. Amidst the ravaged lands of his home stood the victorious healer-swordsman, with Gilgamesh ever a shield at his side.]

[In the last gasps of the Astral War and the days following its conclusion, the people would sing of the planet's dawning hope after the deepest despair. The scenery blurred and changed in crackling white noise, as if one memory couldn't be held for more than a moment--and yet the song remained clear, in countless ever-changing voices. A holy canticle, a prayer to the savior promised to them by the gods themselves.]

[Deus dormit
Et liberi ignem faciunt
Numquam extinguunt
Ne expergisci possit]

[The fading embers of warfare were overtaken by blurred color and muffled sounds as if a hand had slipped from a radio dial in between signals. Remnants of humanity limped from the wreckage and persisted; the nights brought with them fear and trepidation, warded away by torchlight and sacred runes carved into stone havens in the wilderness. And where once had been grand cities of magitek, simpler towns and outposts gradually arose from the ashes. In the wake of a world scarred and ravaged by the lingering plague that turned children of nature into monsters dwelling in darkness...their hero wandered the world healing those afflicted by the blight they had named 'Starscourge'. His arrival was always heralded by celebration, and the healer always met the joy of a suffering populace with a bright smile. It was without hesitation that he took the plague from others' shoulders, their gratitude making his own burden that much lighter. As long as it is only I who should carry such a thing, he believed deep in his heart, then that is a price I will pay for this world's safety. For Izunia, for Gilgamesh, for every casualty of the war he had not been able to save. It would be only Ardyn Lucis Caelum who bore the wrath of a god, taking it from others with a gentle touch and compassionate words.]

[Omnia dividit
Tragoedia coram
Amandum quae]

[He had been chosen for this; he would be leader to the new monarchy which bore the twins' name of 'Lucis'. And not just chosen, but Chosen as the King of Light who would save the world, spending every waking hour traveling with Gilgamesh who the future monarch had cheerfully declared would become Shield of the King. (There is no other I would trust more, Ardyn said as he clasped the swordsman's hands in his own, and oh had he regretted such a sentiment in the centuries to come.) It was Ardyn and his divine healing which would banish the Starscourge once and for all, of that he was certain and refused to think otherwise. Of course it would be him, blessed by the gods as he was. A king should have been one to bear the suffering of his people, so that they could smile as happily as they did when the scourge was lifted from their skin.]

[So he thought it no more than an occupational hazard, when black marks manifested on his skin now and again. Ignored when food and drink began to lose its taste, and hid the fact that he could no longer sleep or touch the sacred ground of havens laid down by the Oracle. Dodged Gilgamesh's questions when red hair faded into bright violet, hazel eyes turning an inhuman yellow; he even brushed aside the swordsman's fears when the future Shield felt the chill of death in Ardyn's hands. When sunlight itself began to set his body to ache, he wore heavy layers and a long coat; when the pallid face in the mirror was stained with the manifested plague he carried, Ardyn struggled to hide it until the pressure behind his eyes would recede and the markings vanish for a time.]

[As long as it was him, everything would be fine. The people were counting on him, the gods would protect their Chosen King, and there was no need to let his friend--or, Astrals forbid, his brother--worry over something like that. So he made excuses, said nothing, and continued his work as a healer even as a malicious and directionless hatred began to twist in the miasma that ran where blood once had. The healer of the people began to resent the subjects he so loved; did they not see what blind faith had gotten them once before? All of Solheim had believed in the Infernian as Lucis now chose to believe in Ardyn, and that began to leave a bitter taste in his mouth. Was humankind's memory so short and their will so weak that they refused to stand on their own? Did they so badly need a savior, a protector either mortal or divine?]

[Pathetic, he'd thought, somewhere between pity and frustration.]

[Et nocte perpetua
In desperatione
Auroram videre potest
Mane tempus expergiscendi.]

[Ardyn no longer remembered all the precise events of his final day in the new capital city that the brothers named 'Insomnia'--so the sight was twisted and distorted, less watercolor and more as though it were a photograph that had been charred and burned away in places. The everpresent melody and words sung in prayer faded and cut out to be replaced by the muffled sounds of a crowd that couldn't be clearly seen. Even barely understood, the tone was one of shouted anger, of calling for blood and justice. Straining to listen carefully enough would make it possible to hear the only distantly remembered cry of the Insomnian people:]

[Kill the Accursed.]

[Two brothers stood in the city of Insomnia, but they were no longer the near-mirror images they once were. One stood tall, a navy blue scarf wound loosely around his neck and wine-red hair a bit longer now, falling in his face. A sword hung loosely in his hand, stained with blackened plague instead of blood. The other twin, held back by a pair of terrified soldiers--the very same scourge staining his face and making his eyes almost seem to glow, coming off his body like smoke. Fury and agony colored the half-formed scene, with a pulse of nameless and feral rage burning like a migraine. Ardyn (or the thing that looked like him) violet-haired and yellow-eyed, snarled something that was more bestial noise than words even if the meaning was clear: the second one of his captors' hands slipped, he would take off the head of the man who had just murdered him.]

['How could it not have died?' muttered one in horror, gripping Ardyn's left arm as if restraining a rabid coeurl. The one on his right looked to the red-haired man with the scourge-stained blade, and said the words that caused even the black blood of a daemon in human form to run cold.]

['What are we to do, Your Majesty?']

[Izunia blinked, looking dimly from his blade to Ardyn to the soldier that had spoken. And somewhere, buried deep beneath an ink-dark ocean of malice and mindless hatred, a voice screamed from far away no, no you idiots, I'm Ardyn, I'm the one you should be calling that, can't you tell the difference-? Tell them, Izunia, tell them I'm your brother, tell me why you tried to strike me down-! But the hazel-eyed brother's demeanor changed in a second; his stance relaxed, expression the picture of steady confidence.]

[He became 'Ardyn Lucis Caelum', and in doing so replaced his brother right in front of the would-be savior's blighted eyes.]

['...The Draconian's word is absolute.' came a startling affectation of Ardyn's cadence. 'Execution, just as with any daemon.']

[Kill the Accursed, Usurper, monster, daemon, our savior will protect us-]

[Firing squad. Beheading. Hanging, crucifixion, drowning, poison--again and again and again they executed him, and every time he simply came back as though nothing had happened at all. That horrible monstrous shrieking persisted, and under layers of indecipherable screaming only the small shard of humanity drowning in the miasma knew what he was struggling to convey: screaming for his Shield in anguished rage.]

['GILGAMESH, PLEASE--YOU PROMISED, YOU SWORE TO PROTECT ME, KILL HIM MAKE IT STOP-']

[But nobody came, and 'Ardyn Lucis Caelum' broke beneath the weight of the 'Accursed' at the final betrayal of one and all he had ever loved.]

[Things abruptly went black, and the next time Ardyn was lucid and aware...it was quiet. Dark and cold, an enclosed room of stone with the sound of waves on a rocky shoreline the only thing to break the stillness. The Umbral Isle of Angelgard, a prison housing a single occupant's weakened body covered in blackened blood and yellow eyes that nearly glowed in the shadows.]

[...So. This was what resulted from pathetic people clinging to any small light in the encroaching dark. People who cringed away from mere shadow, who begged help and followed whoever seemed willing to give such assistance...then cast their savior aside like garbage once he was of no use to them.]

[It had happened to Ifrit, hadn't it? Ungrateful mortals, Solheim had been full of them and now Lucis was no different. Gilgamesh, a coward who abandoned his charge. And Izunia, (a wave of freshly renewed hatred crept into his mind and ran down his face like frigid rain) Izunia, Izunia, Izunia, even if Ardyn was to be trapped here for all eternity then he would never forget the name of the one who had damned him and cast him out. Would remember his face in every reflection, would keep his name as his twin had taken 'Ardyn'.]

[And someday, the beloved dawn those worthless mortals had raised their voices in melody to would be gone, because not a single one of them deserved it. Bahamut, the Crystal, the usurper king and all he stood for...if they thought Ardyn a monster, they'd not seen anything yet.]

Edited 2017-12-20 05:30 (UTC)

The door shuts.

In a tidy little house with a dark room, Mom sits in a chair by the lamp that's still on. Her face looks pale and drawn. She's been awake for hours.

From the dark, a creeping silhouette slows, and stops. A boy, no older than seventeen, drags the hood of his jacket off his head, eyeing her skeptically.

"What are you doing up? It's 3:30."

"It's the 7th night this week I've sat 'till morning," says Diana, who sounds as though her heart might be breaking, "imagining the ways you might have died."

"Yes," says the boy, with a world-weary amusement that implies this is a conversation they've had many times before. And they have. Many times. "And tonight's winner is?"

"In a freak September ice storm with no warning."

Gabe scoffs. "Because that happens."

"There's a gang war. There's a bird flu. Trains collide."

"Now, what did we say about watching the news?" says Gabe, with fond exasperation.

"Now you act all sweet and surly..." Lined as her face is with concern, his mother is plainly happy to see him. "But you swore you'd come home early. And you lied."

Gabe laughs as he lets his schoolbag slide down from his shoulder and shucks off his hoodie. It's not clear where he's been, exactly - only that he's been. "You gotta let go, Mom. I'm almost eighteen."

"Are you snorting coke?" demands Diana, belligerent.

Gabe shrugs fluidly.

"Not at the moment."

"Who's up at this hour?" The voice that floats from upstairs is still slurred and disoriented from sleep, but there's the unmistakable noise of someone getting out of bed, preparing to stumble downstairs.

Diana immediately shakes away the pall of whatever seeing her son has cast over her like a shawl, beckoning anxiously for Gabe to come away.

"Your father." She jerks her head to the darkened space just behind her. "Go. Up the back way."

Gabe glances over his shoulder, pausing. There's a glimmer of something like remorse when he speaks again.

"Why does he hate me?"

"Because you're a little twat," says Diana, so promptly that it has never been more evident that they are mother and son.

"You can't call me a twat," Gabe grumbles. But he obligingly melts away into the dark. In a matter of seconds, it's as though he was never there.

You can't be serious.

Oh, I think you'll find that I am. [Said Ardyn Izunia, standing upon the pier of Galdin Quay and handing over some highly official-looking paperwork to a stunned dockmaster. The sun was bright overhead, which set a nameless something recoiling with discomfort beneath his skin and behind his eyes--yet his tone was light and his mood was one of malicious satisfaction.]

An official request from the Niflheim Empire for the port to be shut down and for no ships to leave Lucian shores until the cessation of the treaty signing. You'll note Emperor Aldercapt's signature, of course. [The tone made it clear that the 'request' was anything but, and by the look on the dockmaster's face as he took the document and began to read it...the term 'direct order' might have been more fitting.]

[But oh, today was such a nice day for Ardyn; there was a dark sense of satisfaction paired with anticipation amidst the daylight-protesting darkness in his head setting an ache behind yellow eyes. Today was simply spectacular, because things were falling perfectly into place. The grand capital city of Insomnia would be leveled by morning, with its prince and his retainers safely a distance away. Even the sunlight off the picturesque blue water couldn't ruin this, even the island in the...distance...]

[Ardyn's thoughts trailed off as his gaze drifted to the rock formation, and for a moment he forgot everything else. Forgot Insomnia's coming fall, forgot the conversation he'd been in the middle of, forgot he'd have to leave in the next five minutes to make it to the city he long predated. Forgot, for a moment, to hide the cold spiteful rage that was beginning to catch in his head like the small ember that would light a wildfire in an instant.]

Chancellor Izunia...?

What-? [He snapped back to the present moment in an instant, looking back to the dockmaster who now seemed equal parts stunned and confused.] Were you saying something?

I was, uh...just saying that you can tell the Emperor that we'll follow the order until the ceremony's over. Not like we have a choice.

Right, right. Of course. [Ardyn gestured vaguely with one hand, recovering his cheerfully cavalier attitude quickly and ignoring the muttered comment.] I shall leave you to it, then. [He turned on his heel, shaking off the lingering cold and furious sensation in his head. it was quite alright, Ardyn assured himself. Quite alright, because the whole two-thousand year affair would finally be ending soon. First he'd see to it that the Chosen King's hometown was handled; Glauca could deal with the current monarch, Ravus would handle the military. Overseeing the deployment of Diamond Weapon was Ardyn's responsibility.]

[The dark satisfaction returned with a vengeance as he spared a cold smirk and a sidelong glance to the island on the horizon. Oh, he'd not be going back there in this or any other lifetime. And those that had put him there would pay dearly even from beyond the veil.]

[It was easy to recognize the Chosen and his guards as Ardyn moved to leave Galdin Quay; even were they not all in Crownsguard black, the scrawny little blond tagging along was the spitting image of countless mass-produced MTs. The stolen research subject; goodness, had it really been only twenty years? Time was such a troubling thing to keep track of when one had so much of it.]

I'm afraid you're out of luck.

[So this was the boy of prophecy. His brother's descendant, a scrawny child who flinched at no more than a simple coin being tossed in his direction, who had no earthly idea what machinations were rearing up to strike in his home at this very instant.]

[A helpless and hapless prince. A broken clockwork soldier. A Shield who was more brawn than he was brains, and an adviser that simply watched things unfold. Beyond pathetic by Ardyn's evaluation; he expected at least one of them would be dead before the end, and the thought that such a thing might help the process along was carefully filed away for later.]

[An impatient traveler, he'd said, and oh wasn't it the truth. There was so much work to do, so many things to arrange and places to go. First Insomnia, then he'd see to it the child gathered his forebears' power, make sure he forged covenants with the useless gods.]

[It wouldn't be long, now. Not long at all compared to all the time he had waited.]

[The 'man of no consequence' stepped back with a smile, turned on his heel, and left the sunlit Galdin Quay, humming cheerfully to himself. The capital city would burn by nightfall, and that was something the would-be Founder King would not have missed for anything.]

[Each memory will have a subthread below, feel free to reply to more than one! Each subthread will also have content warnings in the subject line as necessary.]

Edited 2017-12-20 05:09 (UTC)

a.Lab baby thug life (CW: dead/dying kid, hospital stuff)

[Despite her young age, Ren’s not difficult to pick out in this large room-a room that would look almost like a daycare, with all toys and crayons scattered across the floor, if not for the medical equipment nestled by the few beds remaining in this room. If not for the wallpaper covering up every window and glimpse into the outside world or the two remaining kids wearing purple medical gowns instead of normal clothes. Not that any of this disturbs them-they look comfortable enough. Like they’ve been here for a long time.

Or Ren looks fine, in any case, because the second child is doubtfully unbothered by it all as they lay fast asleep in one bed, attached to a heart monitor that shows a rapid, erratic beat. But it must be normal because Ren doesn’t look up from her wooden block tower even once to check on them. And it becomes apparent why, a few moments later, when her body straightens and her eyes stay on the locked door like she heard something outside of the familiar buzz of medical equipment.

Nothing happens, but she moves fast to scoop as many wooden blocks into her grubby band-aid covered arms and hobbles over to the unused bed across the room and she-

Hides. Right under it, pushing her body as far back as she can when she hears the soft click of a door being unlocked and watches the feet of the people who walk in, hovering by the sleeping child across the room. She starts to push her tiny blocks together in front of her, forming a short wall like it’s going to actually hide her. The ‘if I can’t see you, you can’t see me’ technique shouldn’t be underestimated.

Not that it matters. They aren’t focusing on her. Because the monitor flat-lines, which they seem to expect, and within moments they’re covering the small body, noting times of death on their clipboards and papers and Ren has her hands tight over her ears, like she’s scared of the noise of pens scribbling on paper, instead of the angry, bitter resentment filling the room like a dense fog-coming from the hearts of the doctors and scientists who are down to one kid. One that’s certain to die. One child left that shows how time consuming and wasteful this project was.

But they make short work of it all, and without a sound as they roll the kid out of the room, only one doctor kneeling down to make sure Ren’s in her usual hiding spot before they leave.

And with another soft click, she’s completely alone. And without their presence there, her hands unfold from around her ears and she goes back to playing with her blocks. Just another day in the land of lab baby world. ]

b. The inception sequel no one wanted

[The big tipoff that things aren’t quite right, outside of lively baseball game being played by Ren and this ragtag group of heathens is the fact there’s no one else on such an expansive field. Despite the school uniforms they’re wearing, there’s no one else around. No students, no teachers, no noises outside of the crack of a baseball bat against the ball and the sound of children laughing. Running across the field. Burning off the endless amount of energy kids should have at that age. Good job, Seto and You can’t let him hit the ball and You’re running the wrong way!! Having a blast. The absolute time of their life and yet-

An announcer makes their appearance known over the intercom, telling all kids to go home. Which is rude to single out a couple starving kids having a good time, but whatever. The sun’s going down and despite Ren’s over already? protest, they seem happy. They thank the ball and bat and try to hold onto the dream a bit longer.

The whole scene shifts, showing that it was ‘fake’ to begin with. A dream shared by two startled children that awaken at the same time, bolting straight up to try and figure out what happened. They’re around a small campfire in an abandoned schoolyard. An area that might’ve once looked like the one in their dream, if not for the broken windows, overgrown weeds and the only noise coming from the sound of cicadas humming around them. ]

So you had the same dream the boy whispers to Ren, who answers Yeah, a fun dream.

c. Decade old doritos are kinda tasty

[You know what’s great about convenience stores? They have everything. You know what’s great about abandoned convenience stores with broken windows and grass that pokes through once tiled ground? No one cares what you take.

And so there’s Ren, looking about the age she is now, scavenging through this empty storefront using only the sunlight that pokes through the roof as a guide. She’s looking for food, apparently, singing a bunch of nonsense to herself as she tries to loot this place. Tries, because all she finds are rotten donuts, rotten chips, rotten everything-covered by all the creatures and bugs that managed to get here before her.

There’s absolutely nothing to eat. She looks disappointed, like this is one of many places she’s tried today. It makes her nonsensical song about the round white moon- falter and stop. In her desperation, she hovers by an overturned trash can, kneeling to see if anything’s salvageable. She grabs the remains of something, attempting to peel the mold off with her fingers, but-

It’s bad. There’s nothing salvageable about it, but she holds it in her hands because it’s the best piece of something she’s found. The familiar ache in her stomach makes her hold the item between her hands for a moment longer before she finally plops it next to an anthill. Enjoy lil antbeans.

Her attention goes to cabinets, to other trash cans, to counters, behind the register area and-

Suddenly, she’s standing. Her eyes bright, like every piece of disappointment and hunger has vanished with the item in her hand. It’s not a twinkie or a bag apocalypse surviving doritos. It’s a flower. A clip-the one most people on the island will recognize as the one she wears in her hair.

Look at this child and her trash flower. Amazing. She tries to smell it. Attempts to clip it to the loose fabric of her worn purple hospital gown. Holds it up to the light coming through the roof to see if it blooms under it. It doesn't. Because it's plastic, but whatever. She did her best.]

Edited 2017-12-20 05:21 (UTC)

[You've been here for an hour or more and it's obvious to everyone involved your Puppeteer is stuck on a puzzle.

Again.

You are currently standing in the Grand Library of Zone 2, the upper floors in particular. The puzzle was something that seemed simple, match some cards to certain books. It had taken some trial and error but they eventually matched everything correctly. But there was still one missing.

They had you check everything on this floor to make sure they hadn't missed anything and you have nothing to offer in terms of help. Your Puppeteer could only interact with the world through you and you could only complete your mission with them. Without something to puppet, they could not do anything and vice versa.

It was a relationship that worked and it did. Over and over and over, until the end.

But you're jolted out of your thoughts when your Puppeteer suddenly spins you around, accidentally smacking you face first into a bookshelf. They seem to realize what they did because they have you walk backwards a little bit but it still stings.

They couldn't talk and only see and hear everything. But there were times where it was blatantly obvious that they were frustrated with something. And you can't help with it since there is nothing you can see that will help.

So back downstairs you go. They seemed pretty interested in the actually physical books found on the second floor so that's what you assume they'll have you read for awhile. And in a way that was fine. Some of them were interesting even thought most were full of gibberish.

I have run out of oxygen

...or unsettling. But the one they have you pick out is a...history book, of sorts. You don't read it out loud but the words are visible to them regardless.

For she chose Three Guardians to rule some of the Zones....

You're there for quite some time, checking out various books until they direct you to leave the Library. It may take some time to find the solution to the puzzle but you have faith that they will.

They are your God, after all.]

Edited 2017-12-20 16:38 (UTC)

[There was a certain shift of atmosphere between each Zones. Zone 1, for example, was filled with smoke and the sound of work in the mines while Zone 2 - your current location - was filled with those who simply lived peacefully in a world of paranoia.

It's also very purple, or at least the area you are currently standing in was so. For those who are viewing the memory, they may find it curious that all of the people standing around look the exact same. But this is normal. The amount of unique-looking individuals in this world could be counted on less then two hands.

You don't talk to any of them. Your Puppeteer had directed you to do so already and there's no point in doing it again. They are paranoid children, afraid to even sit down on the rows of chairs that was acting as a 'safe roller coaster' in this theme park.

It's actually your second time here. Prior to this you found out the real roller coaster had been closed down before it was completed so that was out. However, one trip to a puzzle later and you found a switch that opened the gate to it. Evidently your Puppeteer was eager to see what it was like because you came back here immediately. You actually don't mind.

Beyond the gate it's a long walk up a set of stairs before you reach the top. Strangely enough, there's a statue of Zacharie up here too but your Puppeteer ignores it in favor of the ride itself. They first attempt to seat you in the back but soon put you up front once you inform them of your preference. The safety bar comes down and away you go.

It's a straight shot down and the wind whipping passed your face makes you think you should put a hand up to keep your cap on your head, but nothing happens. So instead you stick your hands in the air. It's amusing at best when normally someone might feel exhilaration but that's as good as it got for you. You can say for certain you like roller coasters, however.

The ride is soon over and your Puppeteer directs you to the Elsen running a nearby booth. He hands you a photo of yourself from when you were on the ride.

...you think you might be smiling. It's honestly been a long, long time since you've seen a picture of you smiling and you can't recognize the emotion behind it anymore. The only picture you can remember of you smiling was an old one and it's doubtful it still exists.

However it seems the gears in your Puppeteer's head are turning and back up the stairs you go. You don't mind, even if it meant riding again with a statue beside you.]

There's a little boy in a white-walled room: even, crisp lines, fresh paint, a cot bolted to a wall. He curls up against the door to the room and draws his knees up to his chest with his head ducked low. The dark bags beneath his eyes make him look gaunter, paler, than he has any right to.

He can't be any older than eight or nine.

He twists just enough to press his ear to the door, straining to make out the low rumble of voices on the other side.

"...at the moment, we really can't be sure." Low, steady, professional. That's the doctor. "He's not responding to any treatment in the obvious sense, but we can't know what's wrong with him until we've managed to narrow it down."

There's another voice, softer. It sounds like a woman on the verge of tears. The little boy sits up straighter. His cheek may as well be welded to the door. He just needs to hear her, needs to know that she's there, because she said that she'd stay and he hasn't seen her in hours, and...

The words are too muffled for him to make anything out.

"Comorbidity is always a possibility. The presence of one illness usually leads to a higher risk of another."

"My son is not - " His mother's angry retort never reaches its completion.

"I know it must be hard for you," says the doctor, firmly. "But based on our observations, your son has been experiencing these symptoms for far too long for us to rule it out. These are violent episodes. And you put him at a far greater risk if you simply let him continue untreated."

There's a noise on the other side of the door, like a woman bursting into tears. He doesn't need to listen anymore. He's heard that sound enough to recognize it without needing confirmation. Tim moves back, back, back, scooting until he's on the other side of the room, and stares at the door without seeing it.

His eyes clench shut, as though he's been inflicted with some incredible pain, and his shoulders hunch.

"You're not real," he says aloud. His eyes dart to something in the corner of the room - something that isn't there. There's no one here but him. "You're not real, you're not real, you're not real, you're not real, you're not."

He keeps chanting it, over and over, as if that might dispel the pall that feels as though it might be grinding its way into his soul.

[You are not immortal. Your body bends, twists and breaks under pressure like a normal human's would. But you will get back up again and again at your Puppeteer's behest and will not stop until your mission is complete.

Dying had become a minor inconvenience at best because of this point of view but that didn't stop it from being a pain when you were doing something at the time. You jerk awake and light floods your eyes, sharp enough that you have to close them again because it hurts. When you can open your eyes without hurting yourself, you see Omega floating about you, hovering close and almost worrisome. As much as an Add-On could express emotion anyway.

An unholy shriek breaks through the fog in your mind and yes, that was right. You remember what happened. You and your Puppeteer had been stumped by a certain puzzle and Zacharie had offered help in exchange for an item. You went in search of it.

The expected happened.

Shaking your head to quickly try clearing your thoughts, you stand with Omega hovering close in case you fell back down. Being revived didn't mean you came back completely healthy, with all your wounds healed. You were confident that you could stand at least and the chunk that had been torn out of your shoulder was healed along with your crushed throat, but the deep gashes across your chest and stomach had not and you watch blood spill out and stain the floor an even sickly color. Some absurd thought makes its way into your mind, that the green this whole place was painted with and the red of your blood did not look good together. It made you ill and you kind of want to....no. Never mind.

Your vision swims but you hear something and the strings around your limbs tighten, your Puppeteer taking direct control over the situation. They have you use a Fortune Ticket on yourself and your lingering wounds vanish under its healing magic. Now that was taken care of, the two of you survey the situation.

The fight with the impure Burnt had spilled out into the larger hallway rather then continue in the confined space it had begun in, thankfully. Alpha and Epsilon were distracting the Burnt but they would not last forever. It was proving to be stronger then most Burnts, and far more aggressive.

But there was no more time to stand here and think. You and Omega were ready to rejoin the fight. Your Puppeteer has you cast Save Second Base on the failing Epsilon before readying yourself to continue.

Purification in Progress.

It's a long fight but it ends in your victory, the Burnt's last words echoing in your skull. You feel your Puppeteer's strings slacken and you breathe hard, trying to catch your breath as you make your way back to where the fight originally started. You also know you're going to have to restock your supplies and find the nearest Save Block as soon as possible. Everyone was running out of CP and another encounter could prove fatal. You have, after all, never seen what happens if you and the Add-Ons died at the same time.

But first, the item that the Burnt had been guarding. The chest was still there and upon opening it, you're actually kind of surprised what it is.

A music box.

You know your Puppeteer is curious about it because they immediately have you wind the crank to play the song.

...this is...

While you are listening to the music box play, your strings slacken even more. You don't panic however. Even if that was something you could feel, you know what it means: your Puppeteer is doing something else for the moment. It was only when there was a cold, clean break something was wrong.

But if they were gone, that left you standing around in a small room until they came back. Your Add-Ons hover close to the ground, clearly tired, and you yourself were bruised and battered so you sit down. You also wind the music box's crank again.

The song is soothing in a way. It wasn't quite like an old lullaby that was calling you even now, but you can relax and close your eyes for a moment.

You're close now. Just purify this Zone and then you can go Home.]

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

Page 1 of 94

[MU] - DECEMBER STORYTELLING / MEMORY SHARE

OOC || FORM

IC || MEMORY SHARE

tim wright | ota | i'll match your formatting

Chara | OTA

Ardyn Izunia | [ffxv spoilers] | OTA

i. And now we're younger, than we have ever been

Xion | OTA

ii. I'm still not strong enough || CW: BLOOD, EXTENSIVE INJURY, DISSOCIATION

The Batter | OTA

gabe goodman | ota

i. we were still living downtown

I. you who i called brother

ii. someone simply said: "your child is..." ; cw for child death

Keith | OTA

iii. I'm stuck here in between || #spoilers

Yuka Ichijou | OTA

II. how could you have come to hate me so

iii. so my son's a little shit

III. is this what you wanted

Ginko | OTA

Ren | OTA

Chapter 5: The Puppeteer

Chapter 4: Roller Coaster

i. there is a man with no face and a name i don't remember ; cw: hospitalization

Chapter 3: The Pastel-Burnt