[MU] - FEBRUARY STORYTELLING / VOTING

[lifeaftr_mods]

Surprise, surprise, islanders: you're due for another lecture from your friendly neighborhood deity. An ocelot sits before the sprawling campfire on the beaches of Mu, grooming one paw - a paw that, on second glance, will prove to not be a paw at all, but a delicate cloven hoof.

"While I am not pleased with your intrusion," says the Storyteller, "it does not mean that nothing should come of it. You've doubtless glimpsed many things, most of which you were never meant to see. I suppose that's what some might call the wizard behind the curtain."

Some. Not all. They don't care to elaborate.

"Given that you're so interested in how the islands on this archipelago come to be, I will provide you with the choice," and here they stress the word with a calm switch of their spotted tail, "as to what sort of land you would prefer to brave next. I cannot promise safe travels, but I can guarantee the manner of materials those new lands may contain."

Four round dollops of sand wobble at the Storyteller's hooved feet, as though shaped by invisible hands, trembling, jellylike in the imaginary night breeze.

"The first...I have glimpsed flora and vegetation that may benefit you - for food, for medicinal purposes, for whatever you may see fit. The second bears something that I suspect can be used to fashion buildings, tools - an ore, of some sort. The third is...loud, terribly loud. A great many people live there, and they do not seem innately hostile. The fourth is full of noises, too, but of a different sort. I suspect a large number of beasts live there; perhaps tameable, perhaps docile, and perhaps not."

Their hooves have sunk into the sand, their amber gaze fixed and unblinking at some distant point on the horizon. Then, abruptly, they straighten, and the tension clenching their slim, felid frame eases.

"...cast your votes, if you wish. Whichever you choose, I will take us there."



It is time, once more, for you to tell a story. The setting will be familiar for oldcomers, and newcomers will recognize it from the introduction they received in their dreams. This too is a dream, and the ink-black dark is illuminated only by the bonfire surrounded by log seats. And seated around the fire are your fellow islanders, many of whom doubtless know the drill by now.

One by one, you will each have the opportunity to share your stories, as stories possess a certain undeniable power. Newcomers can tell whatever tale they wish, but for those who have been in LifeAftr for at least one Storytelling, only stories of their time in LifeAftr will count down the road. The story need not be long, or conventional, or even verbal; as long as the Storyteller knows it has been told, it will qualify. Those of the nonverbal persuasion have, as of a request issued by Ren (catpiper), an alternative means of telling their stories if they so choose, in the form of the Chamber of Glyphs.

If you prefer to keep your mouth shut, that's always an option, though you're more liable to benefit if you do. Perhaps you'd rather not relive any of your history, varied and variegated as it must be. Or maybe you're something of a compulsive un-truther, prone to embellishments and long, fanciful tangents. As long as the core of the story is true to its spirit, you are free to spin your tale however you like.

So choose well.

Comments

[story_teller]

They are not eloquent in the face of such modernized slang, a flick of their tail and a slow, blink of their eyes indication that they're considering it- the better response to her attempt at entering a conversation.

"Hello, Lup." Is what they eventually come up with- not unkind, not overly warm. But lax enough. Close enough.

Sup?

[hellawrath]

Well that's going fantastic, just a stellar beginning to a conversation here. Opens up all sorts of venues. Question is just, which one to take. She shifts a little, glances down at the spotted cat. The hooves are pretty neat. She kinda appreciates their flair for taking shapes that are just weird enough. Anyway.

"Can I ask you a question? Like, a personal one?" Unfortunately that's the extent of the politeness they're getting, since she's way too antsy to actually wait for permission, though at least she's fairly quiet and cautious about it. "Why did you go to sleep, way back? I mean, what happened?" It hadn't really seemed relevant before, she wasn't high enough level to unlock that backstory nor did she care to be, gods and their problems, whatever. But it kinda feels like her business now.

[story_teller]

The conversation has begun and is thus, open. If they feel any discomfort in the wake of Lup's apparent awkwardness, the hoofed ocelot certainly makes no indication of it; as placid and attentive as ever, ears flicking towards her voice keenly.

She certainly doesn't wait past offering a few, bare platitudes, does she?

"I suppose this is a fair question, when the gods in your world never seem to sleep." They muse, in an almost idle fashion. "At times, even the gods grow tired with the day to day. The world is forever changing, but change can become just as tedious as any desk job. I was..."

Silence. Slowly, their gaze rests upon her, eyes significantly older than anything else in this dream. Even her.

"Tired. A factor that would not benefit anyone. Change was required. I rested in order to allow both myself and this world the distance to be involved again, as a benefit, and not a burden."

[hellawrath]

Lup doesn't falter under their heavy gaze, but it does keep her quiet. Kinda puts things into perspective. A lifetime long and burdened enough to make even a god tired is pretty impressive, even if it still doesn't beat the kinda scope that the whole 'the fate of every planar system in reality rests on your success' is on, so she's good here.

"I guess that makes sense? I'm not a cleric or anything but I guess the gods I'm familiar with only sleep if they've like, lost all their followers, if nobody believes in them anymore. Which is kinda what Newt said happened to the folks around here, actually?" Her tone isn't accusing, bringing that up; she's still surprisingly respectful of the fact that this probably isn't really her business to snoop around in. She doesn't like it either, this isn't the sort of contentious advisory relationship she fought to have with them, it's too personal. But what she felt made it personal and she needs some answers.

And it does make her wonder what came first. "I mean... did something wipe them out while you were asleep? Or... or were you tired because you lost your stories?"

[story_teller]

"I believe the precise term I used when speaking to him was apocalyptic." They confirm, with one, irritable flick of their tail. "As with all others, this world has also seen its fair share of abrupt loss- that would have certainly been a factor."

Their paws tucked neatly at their front, the Storyteller shakes their head; solemn.

"A long-stemming factor. The occurrence Newt apparently discussed with you transpired in a past much farther away than one thousand years. He sought clarity on the people who named me, not those who came just prior to my slumber. No- such instances in time require the gods to be awake for the task no one wishes for. Cleaning up."

[hellawrath]

It makes sense that a god with that kinda lifespan would see a lot of loss, would have to deal with several disasters or even apocalypses. So the correction to the timeline here is interesting, but not really surprising. Still, though.

"I'm sorry." They're frequently inscrutable, but not so inscrutable that Lup can't tell they do feel something for their people and their world. She's seen them grieve, seen them feel responsible, hand out Candlenights gifts. What's harder to tell is where the extraplanar couch surfers really stand.

"Are we-- Like, do you want us to go home? What's gonna happen to you, are you just going back to sleep?" A stupid question maybe, like, the whole crystal disaster happened because they couldn't wait to get rid of everyone. But-- she doesn't know. Maybe something's changed. All she knows is that she couldn't bear to let anyone go, up on the islands.

[story_teller]

At her condolences, they dip their head in a gesture of appreciation-- one that they can't, quite seem to lift their head from.

"That is..." A shudder, and a sigh. All at once, the Storyteller seems rather interested in staring at the blackness overhead, eyes reflecting a myriad of stars which, if Lup were to follow their gaze, simply aren't there.

"Not my choice to make. I will not take the freedom to return to your stories away from you- just as I would do all in my power to allow those who wish to stay to... stay." Only then do they allow themself to look at her; this brazen, curious... oft-times far too compassionate woman. "In this instance, the very least I can do is cast aside any personal desire. We have already seen the ramifications of my actions when prompted by any particular emotion- what would I be if I purposefully influenced you one way or another in this, but the precise, selfish creature so many have decided I am?"

[hellawrath]

Hit the nail on the head, it seems. Weird how it doesn't feel like anything to be proud of. Their sadness is so heavy that Lup lowers her head in sympathy, ears folding in viscerally remembered grief, though she doesn't stop watching them. This matters too much to avert her eyes.

'All in their power' is maybe not as reassuring as they're meaning it to be, but it's appreciated anyway. It's an unexpected relief, to hear they'd be on her side for people like Ren and Chara and Frisk, who have no home to go back to. She'd kinda expected to have to fight the god's ass on that one. It's equally good to hear they won't stand in the way of anyone leaving, even if that's gonna mean a loss to them, like the one she'd felt a couple days ago.

Sounds like a lot of things have changed. She doesn't quite know how to feel about that.

But Lup believes them. Maybe it's been coming for a while, but this is the moment where she accepts that she just, she trusts them. Trusts that they mean what they say, that they're being truthful. That they care and they try. She holds their dark gaze, and she nods in understanding, and in thanks.

"For what it's worth-- and I really wish you hadn't needed that lesson, but-- I don't think you're selfish. I think you're learning a lotta new tricks for an old dog."

Now it's her turn to tuck her feet in, knees pulling up to her chest as her eyes seek out the dancing flames, like their warmth will keep away the chill of recalling what she came here to address. "Up on the islands, I was... I felt something, something horrible? Whenever I was alone, I couldn't-- it was like I was the only one left, like I'd lost everything. I was-- grieving. Even when I ran into somebody, I was afraid they'd-- that I was imagining them, that I was fucking going out of my mind with loneliness, I--" She bites her lip; they probably get the picture.

"Is-- does that sound familiar to you?"

[story_teller]

They cannot deal in absolutes, no matter how much they may wish to. There are no guarantees to their continued success; no ensuring her safe return to her world, or the continued existence of those who have nowhere else to go, nothing left to return to. A harsh reality is the best of their abilities, wherever that may lead them all.

It is something they are certain she understands, to an extent.

"Thank you. That is appreciated." A sentiment they can only convey in words, physical expression lost to them- all the more as she explains her experiences, asks for their input.

Does that sound familiar to them? The Storyteller closes their eyes, silent for a long while.

"Even gods must feel loss. Why you felt the way you did- how it came to be, I cannot say. But grief is not a foreign concept to me, not only in the stories I have been told, but in personal experiences." Their voice is strained, words coming slowly. "In the worst of times, it has not been beyond me to feel as if I am the last being left alive. By pure luck, I suppose, that has never been the case."