[MU] - FEELING LIKE A GHOST (PART II)

[lifeaftr_mods]

"No, no...no!"

The Storyteller's voice cuts through the inkdrop-dark, frantic and scrambling. A distant blot of campfire gutters in the far distance - far from where you are. The disorientation of the week preceding this one has translated into Mu, and everything is hopelessly out of place. The Storyteller sounds muffled, clearly addressing someone or something else, their voice cushioned by the uniform, void-like night.

"Stop it. Stop it! I wasn't gone for very long at all. You can't behave for two weeks? You have to make it all...all...wrong? I can't keep this up - not with what I've had to do since returning - !"

Gradually, however, the shadowy campsite solidifies into being. Or...a semblance of it does, in any case. Four glistening pyres rear out from the shadows, each glowing a different color. The strange material that domes them almost resembles worked steel, forming different patterns against their multicolored backdrops.

[ ♆ ] The first glows a deep crimson, kicking scarlet embers into the dream-night air. Its pit sphere portrays a crowd of people in silhouette, heads bowed in genuflection - paying homage to some looping, many-coiled shape in the sky above.

[ ♆ ] The second glows a deep orange. Its pit sphere is worked into the shape of a looming mountain, with what might be some sort of village or ruin sprawled at its base.

[ ♆ ] The third's flames are a rich green. Its designs are most abstract; the starburst patterns that swirl across the metallic composition of its fire pit sphere could be explosions, maybe...or something else entirely.

[ ♆ ] The fourth pyre is one bearing host to golden flames, amber sparks sprayed out from behind the shape of a set of scales nestled among a flurry of birdlike shapes.

Beside each pyre is heaped a pile of sticks, colored to correspond to their respective flames. The Storyteller sounds agitated when they manage to speak again:

"Will you let them at least make the choice I left to gave them?" When there is no response, they sigh. "If you can hear me...I can't make it clearer than that, at the moment. Pick one. Pick one, quickly, and try to get out before it decides to make things worse! Just add a stick to whichever one looks best to you!"

Unfortunately, whether you abstain from voting or make your choice, that's not all there is to this night...



Tonight's Storytelling, further warped by Mu's capricious nature, will likely feel familiar to those of you who were with us in December of the year prior. Only this time, you don't get much choice in what kind of story you're telling...or, indeed, any choice in the matter at all. As you wake by the Storytelling campfire, Mu shifts to form three separate events from your character's present - which is to say, within one full year of their current canonpoint - 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.

---

While the initial setting will be familiar for oldcomers, and newcomers will recognize it from the introduction they received in their dreams, things will be far more similar to the memory share that occurred in December. All memories must be from within one year of your character's canonpoint. For questions, please refer to our OOC event post!

Even those who prefer not to voice their stories aloud are not safe this time around. The memory does not need to be willingly recalled in essence in order for Mu will shift to accommodate it in full.

Just like the last time this happened, all memories will be worth two offerings each, as if in compensation. So at least there's that!

Comments

[crosslaced]

Player Name: Star
Character Name: Laurent
Character Journal: crosslaced
Number of Memories: 2
Offering(s): yikes

[ichininyaanshi]

It's big.

[Somehow, that's the first thing out of his mouth. Which is insensitive and stupid, and thus the exact sort of thing that Ichimatsu would say. It's toneless, and he hasn't even managed to pull his gaze away from the body to actually look at how the coat fits, so maybe he's just spouting bullshit to fill the silence. Stupid.]

[That'll show him to stick to what he's good at.]

[Ichimatsu, of course, never learns his lesson. And he's trying to be different. So instead of leaving it at that, leaving the Drifter in the mourning rain and their own voiceless grief, he moves his hands into his pockets and speaks again. This time, he looks at them, already knowing that he'll have to do it if he wants to hold a conversation.]

... someone you know?

+1

[catpiper]

[crosslaced]

I-

[He tries to speak in Akielon, but finds it too tiring. Switches back to Veretian instead. ]

I was- wrong. I’ve said it before. What you’ve done doesn’t excuse my actions.

[The words are dragged out from some raw, subterranean part of himself. Even by Laurent standards he’s unusually subdued. Damen would know what’s been bugging him this week; Laurent’s been wavering to and from the house, plagued by a ghost called Auguste. He hadn’t said much about it beyond the confession that Auguste had not been too approving of his brother’s life choices. As it- would be, probably.]

But thank you.

[dedamastai]

My love, forgiveness is not the excusal of your actions. [He switches back to Veretian, just to make sure Laurent understands the next bit clearly.] You're a terrible snake of a human being, duplicitous and manipulative beyond belief.

[Damen brushes Laurent's hair from his face, and his tone changes. It's softer now, fonder.]

But I'm still here, and that is what separates you from them. Forgiveness means I trust it will stay this way.

[He doesn't clarify who he means, because there are still things that are just between the two of them. That one brother was a traitor and the Reagent had a laundry list of crimes isn't something he needs to say out loud.]

[hyperlit]

[Then I fight for friends.]

[That was one of the last things they said to him, before...they do not know if he succumbed, or if he lived. They did not ask. It was not a fear of the answer that waylaid them - it was simply not something they expected to need to know, unless that was what he wanted to share by choice.]

[The Drifter's hand works up to their own cloak. It fits them better.]

someone who was kind

[...no. Not was.]

is

tim wright | ota

[postictal]

[The following contains violence, arson, stabbing/impalement, and allusions to suicide. I will match prose or brackets!]

i. sat indoors feeling alone and full of decay

[postictal]

[The door swings open.]

[The interior of the house looks...tired, in the same space that it looks wearily and disconcertingly ordinary. The most notable thing about it is its disarming lack of notability, unless you count the instruments. There's a keyboard in the corner, a French horn case by a doorway, a case for a bass guitar propped up against a wall, and countless others.]

[The man inside the house doesn't spare so much as a passing glance at any of those things. He is tall, scruffy, poorly groomed. His clothes are ragged and stained, as though he's been wearing them for entirely too long.]

[His tone is flat when he speaks. Bereft of life. Bereft of anything.]

Where are you, Tim?

[Weary, almost deadpan, and cut with the sound of liquid sloshing in the canister at his side. It spills out, spatters over the hardwood floor in a soft spatter. The rancid sting of gasoline burns in his nostrils, at the roof of his mouth.]

Stop playing games, and come out. [It sounds vaguely admonishing, like a parent berating a child who's dragged on a game of hide and seek for entirely too long.] This is what you wanted, right? Me and you? Here I am.

[No answer. He nudges open a door, peers inside. The interior is dark and empty. He moves on, and lets the smell of gasoline pour and pour and pour out onto the floor.]

Where you hiding? You in the attic? [Almost offhand, he reaches up to bash a hand against the roof trapdoor. The hand holding the gun.]

[Oh, yes. There's a gun. Its weight is smooth and natural in his hands. Gasoline in one, and gun in the other. He waits for a response that never comes. Continues smoothly on.]

That's fine.

[Pause.]

[His tone hardens abruptly, a lateral shift. The words are cold, now, lacking even that veneer of mocking, even playful familiarity.]

This is all your fault. I thought it was me, but you're the source.

[He starts talking, louder. Just in case Tim's there. Just in case he really is in the attic, listening. He's got to be nearby. He all but challenged him to come here, and her he is, and the coward won't even come out and face him.]

You're the reason any of this happened.

[Still, nothing.]

Everyone is gone, [he snarls, the words spiking, his teeth baring,] because of you!

You left Jay! [Static, swarming up his throat. Snowing his vision, in and out. Burning in the air. Or - surely that's the gasoline. Just the smell of gasoline.] And you left Brian! Everything that's happened is your fault! And it's not gonna end until you're dead!

[Again, he waits. He can't explain to himself why he waits. For Tim, stewing in his self-pity, in his guilt, in his regret, to say something? For Tim to confront him, like he said he would? Well, it turns out they're both fools, then, for believing it.]

[Because He Is A Liar.]

So. I'll tell you what. [Conversational, again. Smoothing something calm and disarming over the static. It's gone. It was never there.] If you don't do the right thing, and burn to death? You come and find me. We'll settle this. You know where I'll be.

[He nudges the backdoor open with the toe of a scuffed-up shoe, a shoe that's so worn that the treads have been smoothed into nothing. He knows this house better than he knows his own. He knows this house because he lived in it, for a time, unbeknownst to anyone. He slept in the attic. He descended into the living room some nights, to stare out of the windows with the lights off while car headlights blitzed by in linear streaks of white-gold. He knows this house because everything before this has been blurred out, redacted, like black lines over paper.]

[This is what he thinks of as he empties the last of the gasoline into an acrid-smelling puddle in the yard.]

[This is what he thinks of as he strikes the match and holds up the trembling flame. Wondering if Tim can see. Wondering if he'll watch, as this entire place burns to the ground.]

[This is what he thinks when he bends down and touches flame to gas, and watches the curtain of red-orange roar up in a deadly rush of white noise.]

[It scrabbles in his head like static.]

[Tim's house starts to burn.]

ii. adding up all the pain left in your brain

[postictal]

[So there are three people in a cage, and the rain is sluicing down in heavy sheets. The cage sways sickeningly, lowering ever closer toward the heaving dark of what's unmistakably an ocean below.]

[Tim crouches over small shapes scratched into the ceiling and floor of the cage. He shares his predicament with a towheaded boy, shivering violently, and a stranger with ragged hair and a drifting disposition. They're mid-conversation; Tim has started speaking, bracingly,] now everyone knows. And they'll be - they'll be coming any minute -

[The cage wobbles precariously, as though it's being lifted, as it indeed is - though not, as it turns out, because the chain lowering them into the ocean has suddenly decided to reverse directions. No, it's actually that the cage has just spontaneously decided to hover of its own accord, limned with a bright blue glow. Tim claws for the bars of the cage, pressing up against them for support, eyeing the wind-churned waters below.]

[Then, abruptly, whatever external force is keeping the cage suspended releases its hold. The cage jerks down with an alarming jolt that shivers down the length of the heavy chain as it goes plummeting down with a force that sends it shearing forcefully into the foam-crested waves, plumes of water shooting out from the epicenter of the impact and again thoroughly soaking the cage's floor.]

What just happened? [Tim glances frantically at his two cellmates, more than slightly panicked and wholly drenched. The cage begins to submerge itself into the water all the faster, as though it's that much more intent on drowning its occupants now, thanks to whatever the hell tried to levitate them.]

[That's when the tallest occupant of the cage begins to laugh, his mien sliding from mild-mannered to menacing.]

"Ahahaha! So, we're all going to die, hm? Trapped like rats in cages. Oh, I know what he'd want me to do, but hm...you know what? I'm feeling merciful today. You both win the prize! The prize is... dying before you drown! Isn't that nice? It'll make things so much easier!"

[He lunges at Tim, knife in hand. He slams Tim roughly against the bars of the cage. The kid starts to shout, springing for Tim in the same moment that the blade slams into Tim's stomach. His hand snaps out to snatch at the guy's wrist, but it's too little, too late.]

[He can only hold the man's wrist there, tightly, his teeth gritted. A low, pained sound starts to swell in his throat. His eyes start to lapse shut.]

[A short, sharp intake of breath. A trembling stillness as he continues to hold the blade in place. His eyes shiver open, and there's something about him that is just...not right, exactly.]

[But anyone who knows them would recognize the look immediately, as he pulls their memories forward. As he pulls everything that he can remember of them forward. Of their SOUL as it was held in agonizing parallel to his. He pulls everything forward, because if there was one thing he could remember from them, one lasting impression, one impossible fingerprint they left on the contour of his own battered and feeble soul, it was that they would never. Give. Up. They took the pain as it was dealt to them and they held it and they wove it into themselves and they weaponized it.]

[So he holds onto the man's wrist as it plunges the blade into his flesh, maybe cutting up a bit of his organs on the way, he doesn't know, he doesn't care, and he fastens his other hand around his attacker's arm for good measure, and he grits his teeth and glares at him.]

No one, [says Tim, eerily calm,] is dying.

[And he smiles.]

So don't even try.

[His attacker twists the knife deeper into him. The veins in Tim's neck stand out in stark relief, but his attacker seems...offended, almost, that this isn't getting the kind of reaction he'd anticipated.]

"So you'd rather die in freezing water?" [he sneers.] "Come on, at least this way you'll feel something before you go out. Besides... I wanna know who you call out for in your last moments. Your mother? Your lover? Let's hear those screams."

[Tim looks like he's about to laugh. His mother? His lover? What makes this guy think Tim has either of those things?]

"I thought you were interested in survival," [the boy is saying, desperately.] "This won't get you out of here any faster."

[Tim - he remembers. He remembers who they were and he remembers knowing everything about them, he remembers being utterly exhausted at levels he didn't even know were possible, because they would not yield for anything, for anything, the boiling need to not give up was practically seeded into their bones. It was a pathological, warped, unrelenting, unyielding determination honed and refined to a bladed point, and he latches onto it and drives it through himself like a pin skewering a butterfly to corkboard. His grip tightens on the wrist that keeps the blade buried in him, using that as his psychological spandrel. The grounding inflorescence of pain and warm crimson soaking his shirt. This is what he will do. This is what he will do. He will ensure this burns itself into him and only him and he will take this point and he will place himself upon it gladly because it is better to facilitate this, to someone he knows can take it, than anyone else trapped in this cage with him.]

I'd listen to him, [he says, the words crawling painfully from his throat as he leans forward, locking eyes with the man who's trying to kill him, teeth bared in something approximating a snarl. His eyes glint with something - something he does not mean to drag forth in himself, something that did not even originate from himself. Something he doesn't mean to bring forward but comes forth with the rest of them. He tries to laugh, but it emerges a strained cough. He can almost taste the rancid blood flowing up and out of his throat, of the sores that do not exist.]

There's no fun in killing someone with nothing left to lose.

[The man with the knife scoffs.] "Then I'll just have to listen to you scream in pain. Consider it payment."

[That's when the boy plows forward, lunging for his legs, trying to bring them down in an ungainly tangle. He partially succeeds, but he takes Tim with them. He lurches. He braces his spine against the bars and his knees are pressed against the cage's floor even as the water begins to swill up to his waist, and he launches himself forward without relinquishing his grip on the other man's wrist, at the same moment the kid tackles him. He lands on top of his attacker heavily, in such a way that drives the knife deeper into his middle, and it hurts and it is agonizing but he has seen and felt worse things. So he will hold this.]

[He will hold this.]

[He is determined to hold this.]

[Pinning the man down with Tim's dead weight and the blade that has buried its point into the center of him. The blade that has become his fulcrum. That flaring point of pain, of pain, of pain, that he will not allow to be ripped from him and used against anyone else. He does not cry out. He does not laugh. He manages a soft grunt of exertion when the blade digs in deeper, but - he will hold this. He swore to himself he would hold this and so he will.]

[That's when a golden light suffuses the entire cage, blindingly, and the memory cuts out.]

iii. it's just another black day

[postictal]

[The Castle is in a poor state.]

[Bright cracks have spiderwebbed across the fabric of reality, bright as broken glass. Parts of it waver, grayed-out and shimmering like heat waves. Fragments of something disparate, peering through. If you squint close enough - ]

[Actually, there's something far more important dominating the scene.]

[She appears in a curl of acrid black smoke, staged like the rise of a movie villain with the draining of color and cracks behind her increasing. Bone-pale hands spread wide as her arms raised to the skies, shadow creatures exploding in to existence all around her. She says nothing, but the expression on her face speaks volumes.]

[Shadows swarm out from behind her - blurry-edged, eyes like embers of cold amber, pooling in a massive, unbroken tide for those who remain: a young woman, a squat skeleton, a red paladin, a guy in red and black, a kid in a hoodie. Though, if we're going to be clear here: those are just the ones Tim recognizes.]

[The chaos is absolute. The air burns, simmering with the tang of ozone and magic. The back of Rin's hand burns with a Command Seal. A massive, canid skull materializes, vomits streams of white-hot energy across the tide of smoke-black shadows.]

[There's an ending to this story, somewhere. But it's not a happy one, and it's not one anyone gets to see.]

[postictal]

Player Name: Zero
Character Name: Tim Wright
Character Journal: postictal
Number of Memories: Three!
Offering(s): All here!

Re: OPTION 3

[suspecteverything]

1 vote from Jules

Jules Dagger Samari - Open (read warnings first)

[suspecteverything]

(Warnings for severe bodily harm and death, though not written too graphic. Also the usual warnings about tagging Jules if you're concerned he might bother you as a player.)

Jules watched as Mira skipped her way back into the church where her mother would be waiting for her. At least his little girl would be safe. He turned his attention back to the two before him who claimed to be Tavali. They weren't though. He knew that without question even without his Trisani abilities. With them, his mind was absoultely screaming danger. These two had the ability to destroy the entire space station, and with it all of the people that Jules loved.

But that wasn't going to happen. Not with him here. Not even if it took his life to prevent it. He calmly led them up to the offices and closed the door behind him. Nobody would be there. Everyone was in church and therefore safe from whatever these two had in store - a bomb he was pretty sure.

A moment later that suspicion was confirmed. Without a moment's hesitation a knife flashed into Jules' hand. Two throats were slashed, but not quickly enough. Not enough.

"Minsid hell!"

An active bomb on a space station could kill everyone. One breach in their outer shell and the vacuum of space would kill them all if the lack of breathable air didn't. Somehow he had to contain this. No matter what it took. He snatched up the bomb as he threw a shield around the room. His abilities weren't as strong as Trajen's or even Thraix's, but he could probably contain most of the blast. At the last moment he shifted the tiny bomb from his left hand to his right. There was no doubt he was going to lose an arm at minimum. Might as well make it the one without his wedding ring or tattoo. That would be a serious waste.

It was his last thought before the power of the bomb exploded through the room, tearing everything nearby apart. Not just inanimate objects either. Jules' arm up to his shoulder is torn into tiny pieces, none of them still attached to his body. The rest of him takes a beating too, but he doesn't care. The shields held. His wife, his son, his daughters. Everyone else. They're all safe. The shields held. Even if he ended up dying from this, it was worth it.

The Guardian | OTA

[smallkindness]

[Content warnings for violence and character "death". Minor spoilers for Hyper Light Drifter. I'll match you.]

[piercetheheart]

[Gladio isn't sure he wants to talk to Ardyn, really, but watching what happened between them while he and the others lay unconscious on the floor of the throne room leaves him with one question.

It's what comes after that makes it impossible to ignore that question. He'd never considered it, even when the flowers were threatening to take Ignis from him, when they'd had to face certain uncomfortable truths about Regis' ulterior motives.

Never once did he think it would be him on the throne.]

Forevermore... [He huffs the word out, dark and a little derisive, rolling his eyes as he nods toward the fire, the very god that put them here. He's worried about Tory, sure, but he's still frustrated with the little god's refusal to let Ardyn pass.

Then he reaches down to lean on a log as he lowers himself to the sand beside Ardyn, only for his arm to give out. He drops down hard, hissing a breath out in pain, gently shaking out his hand as if that might help.]

Ardyn? [He knows damn well the redhead is going to tell him to fuck off any moment but he has to ask.]

Why didn't you just kill us?

[scourgingstars]

[No answer came right away, and neither did Ardyn even acknowledge Gladio's presence as he dropped nearby.]

[...Because he really didn't know.]

What, are you regretting I didn't?

ann takamaki | ota

[ladytakamaki]

[ cws for potential discussion of sexual harassment, abuse, and suicide. ]

A: the awakening

[ladytakamaki]

[ ann is strapped down to some kind of board, struggling. she looks like she's in pain, and she's crying out--though nothing seems to be attacking her. it's a strange sight to see, but there's a voice that echoes in the background--

I am thou, thou art I...

ann lets out a loud cry before she stops struggling, slumping over. but she's still breathing, still conscious.

We can finally forge a contract.

there's a sense of something awakening within her; something powerful. finally, ann speaks, and her voice is calm. confident. accepting. ]

I hear you...Carmen.

[ she finally looks up, but a red mask flashes to life over her eyes--which are bright yellow and glowing. ]

You're right. No more holding back...!

[ whatever this new power is? it's strong. she struggles one last time against the cuffs holding her down, and she breaks free with her strength alone. she hops down from the platform and...

rips her mask off?? and oh, there's blood all over her eyes. well, that sure happened.

but it only happens for a split second before there's a column of light that engulfs her. and once the light dies down, there's a giant woman standing behind ann, and ann has also changed outfits.

ann looks like she's ready to rumble. she certainly is. ]

[ladytakamaki]

[ the lashes are too much, and ann has to look away when it happens. this is where damen and laurent come from, huh? ann doesn't think she'd be able to handle living somewhere like this, but she's silent, eyes averted from the memory until she hears damen's voice again.

help me regain my kingdom and i'll see you king of vere.

wow. so she's living with royalty. this is fine.

after the cuff is locked into place and the trumpets sound, ann turns to damen. she's not really sure what to make of all of that. but she hadn't realized just how powerful these two were back in their world. ]

Wow...

[ she's silent again, not really sure what to say. ] So... You and Laurent are royalty, huh? That's...pretty crazy.

[ (I'M ASSUMING THEY DIDN'T SAY ANYTHING ABOUT IT BUT... i hope this works) ]

One Small Kindness

[smallkindness]

[The wilderness that existed outside the boarders of Central Town did not often change. They certainly remained dangerous no matter how one looked at it but sometimes simply dealing with dangers was easier then the absolute unknown. Or perhaps that simply was the mentality of a drifter.

The Guardian is patrolling these wilderness, a task they had taken up to make sure others did not suffer the wrath of the creatures that lurked out of sight. Thick green trees often hid unknown dangers that the unaware or unequipped are not aware of. Traveling merchants walked these paths made of stone and grass knowing the risks involved but having little choice if they wished to sell their wares. The Guardian wished to be a little land one could find in-between the sharks, hence why they were here.

It is when they are passing through a long pathway does the Guardian spot someone collapsed in a heap upon the ground. They move quickly to the person's side to get there before anything else could and kneel beside them. Those in the lands of LifeAftr will recognize the unconscious person as the Drifter if they have met the blue-skinned warrior. The Guardian does not know them, however.

This is how they met for the first time.

The Guardian does recognize them as a fellow drifter, however. The almost ritualistic need to cover one's face, the sprite that often hovered over each drifter's shoulder as they worked. Neither the sprite nor its owner were moving but the Guardian can see the steady rise and fall of their chest. They were alive but a place to recover would go a long way.

They recognize the blood staining the Drifter's mantle after all. Understands the all too familiar possibility they may have fallen due to the same sickness ravaging the Guardian's own lungs, bones and veins.

In Buried Time those factors were enough to not help someone. There was largely no camaraderie between drifters, no requirement to lend a hand if one stumbled across another in danger. And the Guardian was not blind to the visible ting of blue skin and what it meant, that the world saw it as something not worth its time and kindness.

But to them those were ridiculous excuses and not worth considering. Someone was in need of help and so the Guardian will help them. That is all.

The sprite is first placed in the Guardian's bag as they know it cannot be left behind before turning to the Drifter. They are light so the Guardian has little problem with pulling the Drifter up onto the pink drifter's back and gets an arm under them so they do not fall off. The Guardian quickly looks around to make sure nothing will be left behind before leaving.

It is a long trek back to Central Town and the Guardian has to set up camp once as night falls before they can make it, watching over the Drifter's still unconscious form. When dawn breaks they move on.

The Guardian cuts through Central Town quickly. The few that were up at this early hour move out of their way but not because they wish to maintain the distance but because they understood what the pink drifter was doing and didn't want to get in the way. Helping others was something they were known for, a sense of respect from those they've helped in the past.

And then finally they reach their home. It is a place filled with machines in various states of repair, shelves filled with books and boxes containing odds and ends they have discovered across their journey and a table with a small machine quietly humming. But the Guardian moves onto the second room of the house where there are a few more machines, three terminals in particular, but more importantly, a bed.

They lay the Drifter down on the bed so they can rest, pulling the covers up so they will be warm when they wake and places their sprite down nearby. For a moment the Guardian wonders just how well equipped the other drifter is but finding out would require rummaging around in their belongings and that likely would not be welcomed, least of all while they were unconscious.

But there is at least one thing the Guardian could do for them. From one of the tables they pick up a small black box and a few button presses later, a soft purple glow projects a small tablet. Placing it down on the ground near the bed, the Guardian knees and fiddle with the settings. Drifters may come across most of their equipment on the bodies of those past but that did not mean they couldn't create anything.

And if this one was going to take on this journey, they would need a map. It's the least the Guardian can do for them.]

Jugement

[smallkindness]

[Here it appears that the Guardian is exploring some forgotten ruins, a place where many of the platforms are submerged under water and must be dashed between to ever hope of making progress. They had no particular dislike of the water but they'd rather not test exactly how deep it ran with their life. The Jackal God revived them for every death they suffered yes, but there was no point in throwing caution to the wind when it came to such matters.

The Guardian descends a large staircase in silence, stopping only once to update their map. There were no sounds of the skittering toads about or water moving in strange ways to suggest anything was hiding under the surface but the Guardian is being cautious.

But soon a quiet pulsing sound reaches their ears and the Guardian stops and begins to follow it. They know what it could be and are soon proven correct when they spot a strange quadrilateral shape embedded into the ground, painted blue with an unearthly pink glow. A handle gleams and suggest that it can be pulled open in some manner but the Guardian stops dead when the approach the shape.

And begin to harshly cough, pressing a hand against their unseen mouth in a vain attempt to quite themself down. But it grows worse and worse until the pain and the coughing fit itself brings the Guardian to their knees, if temporarily. Their blade blazes red as they haul themself up but they know, have experienced this enough times to know that it is useless.

The area becomes seeped in darkness and what arises from it is a terrible, monstrously large centipede. Judgement looms over the Guardian's form as they struggle to lift their blade and they both know it was impossible. It was too late.

Even if the Guardian had been fast enough to act before their fit it was far too late.

Judgement quickly seizes the Guardian, wrapping around their middle with a thick appendage. They hear their blade clatter to the ground when they're lifted into the air. Struggling does the Guardian no favors as two hand-like appendages seizes hold of their arms and it is so, so easy for Judgement to yank off their limbs like they were little more then paper, spraying the ground with their blood.

It may be a hallucination in the end but it doesn't stop the pain and the Guardian screams.

They're not even aware of when Judgement drops their body like a toy chucked away by a child. But they are aware of the pain of light as the world suddenly jerks back into focus and they cannot stop a muffled curse as their eyes adjust. This did not become any easier.

The Guardian forces themself to stand, wobbling on their feet and groping for their sprite. They needed to mark this Module on their map.

One...one down.]

[smallkindness]

Player Name: Zee
Character Name: The Guardian
Character Journal: smallkindness
Number of Memories: Two
Offering(s): Here.

[fireindreams]

Player Name: Zee
Character Name: Troupe Master Grimm
Character Journal: fireindreams
Number of Memories: Two
Offering(s): Here.

[fireindreams]

[Grimm does not know if Brumm returned after he fell asleep. The Troupe Master had not been able to wake in time to see if that was indeed the case. There had been no time to say a long good-bye, no chance of holding the Ritual off unless they had all been collectively banished from Hallownest itself.

A perpetual greeting and farewell was the fate the Nightmare King had known he would create the moment his feet touched the physical world. The broken cycle would come at the cost of his children, the death of the Grimmchild. He could not bury the anguish that came when he thought of stopping, of cutting off his limbs and senses to the waking world by tearing his child to pieces.

Not now. Not ever.

Grimm feels a tug at his cloak and kneels down to look at the Knight. It had been the appearance of Brumm that brought this memory to the forefront and he had never intended to speak of it otherwise. Well, it appears this dream took matters out of Grimm's hands.]

I apologize if that caused you any worry, my friend. The pain I experience does not last that long.

[In the long run. There were...other reasons why the Ritual caused him pain but Grimm will not speak of them now.]

[lightlessfuture]

[ If their expression could change, they would be displaying skepticism; Grimm's pain in the memory had been very clear. As it is, they seem to radiate uncertainty, and after a moment they just...

They just pat him gently on the head, apparently at a loss for how to answer that politely otherwise. Disagreeing seems rude, but ignoring that he clearly found the entire thing painful was...also rude?

It's...easier to 'speak', in a dream. Easier to get the meaning of their signing across, even with someone who doesn't know it as well. They opt for speaking with their hands rather than writing, this time.

The malleable nature of the dream fills in the meanings for what they don't know how to say. Brumm is a soft-spoken figure with an accordion, clear in their memories, and so they mimic the way they'd seen him play as a standin for his name. ]

Saw-met-listened-to-Brumm
after-he-left.

Can-tell-you
what-he-said.

If-you-want.


[ Grimm seemed to value that individuality, so maybe he wouldn't want to know...? But then again, it probably doesn't matter either way.

It's not as if the conversation will really ever leave this place. There was no helping either of their fates, after all. ]