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

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

"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!

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

Respond to the island your character will be voting for with the appropriate journal. They do not have to vote if it would not be IC for them to, but this will decide your next island destination!

This island is represented by red flames, a crowd of people engaged in some sort of worship, and a massive, coiled shape above their heads.

This island is represented by orange flames, a towering mountain, and a village or ruin beside it.

This island is represented by green flames and strange starburst patterns reminiscent of explosions.

This island is represented by golden flames, a set of scales, and a number of shapes that resemble birds.

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 must be from the timeframe of one year from your character's current canonpoint, in either direction. 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)! Remember that for this event only, the memory must be from within the timeframe of one year from your character's current canonpoint, in either direction.

[The following contains fantasy violence, character death, and references to terminal illness. I will match prose or brackets!]

[The module hisses a cloud of steam as the Drifter slides it up and out of its well in the ground. It flickers as the Drifter claims it, completing a sequence of four - forming up into a diamond, guttering between pink-white-pink-white-pink-white.]

[Their moment of triumph is, as it happens, short-lived. The Drifter hunches over as though struck by an invisible fist, one gloved hand crumpling into a fist at their middle. They begin to cough, spitting up gobbets of sputtering neon. Black droplets of static slide up from the ground, stuttering droplets of corruption bleeding across the face of the world. The Drifter hits the ground - falls to their knees. They make the loudest noise one ever hears them make: hacking, a whisper-breath of sound, as their own body sets about the long and painful task of killing itself.]

[The world shutters into black. A searing pink eye glares out from the void in the shape of a rhombus. It glows. It warps. Something about it is wrong. The frothing glow of its eye sparks a sputter of energy that illuminates its silhouette: ragged-edged, like a cloak flapping in an invisible breeze.]

[The shape formed in shadow warps, distorts. A spike of pitch black shoots out from its ever-shifting shape and skewers the Drifter where they stand. They have no time to react, no time to do anything but arch in soundless pain.]

[They struggle against the thing that has impaled them through their middle, dripping hot blood into the inkwell-ether.]

[Until, eventually, they go limp.]

[The world shuts off.]

[This scene is familiar to the last. An inlaid diamond shape pulses with a high-pitched hum in the center of a room, though this one is sprawling and mechanical, plainly built into a machine complex of some kind. The Drifter's sprite immediately senses an object with which it can interact, zooming to hover beside the module with a bright chirp.]

[The Drifter does not hesitate. They immediately trot over to the module and lever it open with a familiar drone-and-hiss of relieving pressure.]

[And then - then they blink, puzzled. Something is wrong. The module's interior is charred-black, and not glowing as it should be. The sound cuts out entirely. The Drifter has a split second to realize that something is more than a little amiss before the module detonates.]

[Something humanoid and mechanical unfurls from the false container instead with enough force to send the Drifter reeling. They skid across the floor in a spurt of dust. They roll, pitch to their feet swiftly.]

[A quartet of robotic orbs swarm out from its center and immediately begin to pepper the Drifter with white-hot projectiles, rhomboid bullets that sizzle and sting. They swing their blade frantically, deflect several, try to dash and outrun the rest, but it's an unbreaking tide and more and more of them begin to pepper the Drifter where they stand. They aim carefully, rocket forward, and slice through one of them, reducing it to shimmering pieces.]

[The mechanical beast summons another in its place. The Drifter abandons the smaller orbs and instead cleaves for the source: the Summoner, hovering there like a barbed mechanical wraith.]

[They move fast. It moves with them. It lurches in time to the Drifter's forward dash, unrelenting in its bombardment. They can never get quite close - never quite close enough.]

[Their sprite has begun to chime shrilly. They have sustained damage. They cannot keep going. They have to stop, rip a health pack from where it is kept in their cloak, and - ]

[And it's too late.]

[One projectile strikes home, and the world stops. The Drifter jerks, momentarily highlighted in a moment of perfect agony, hot pink blood seeping from their front and pooling on the ground.]

[Then they collapse, and they lie still.]

[The plains are rainswept and glistening. Here and there, the white prongs of opened ribcages and skeletons of things long-dead bristle from the buff-colored grass. Dead trees jut from the ground in spiky lines of black. Crushed machinery, ancient as the bleached-white bones, glistens in the grass like crushed handfuls of powdered glass. Orange lichen swarms up the cliff-sides, occasionally bunching into bushes and canopies.]

[In the center of it all, the Drifter is crouched beside someone. They lie there, very still, bleeding. It's possible that, if you've encountered them in LifeAftr, you might recognize them as the Guardian.]

[The Drifter hunches there for an indeterminate amount of time before, finally, they gently reach forward and roll the Guardian's corpse over, easing their thick pink cloak off their shoulders. The soft ruff of cream-colored fur at its collar has been dampened and shrunken by the rain, but the Drifter still pulls the garment awkwardly around themself, clutching it shut at the front. It is only slightly too big for them.]

[They do not, of course, say anything. What is there to say to the dead?]

[They simply stand there over an unmoving corpse in silent mourning. The rain continues to trickle down. The sky is still gray and silent. The hills are as bereft of life as ever.]

[Now, even more so.]

Player Name: Zero
Character Name: The Drifter
Character Journal:

hyperlit
Number of Memories: Three!
Offering(s): All here!

BIRBS!

Worship means gods and gods are a good thing, usually, sometimes, maybe

[ Content warnings: fantasy violence, body horror, death. Spoilers for the game. I'll match you! ]

Edited 2018-10-20 04:30 (UTC)

[The following contains fantasy violence, references to character death and major spoilers for the Grimm Troupe DLC. I'll match you.]

Edited 2018-10-20 04:26 (UTC)

fuck people, fuck mordor, fuck the weird thing he saw in his dreams APPARENTLY THAT LEAVES US WITH BIRDS

[ Here is a vision that drips through in flashes at first, dark water seeping through seams and cracks; by lantern light a familiar, tiny figure digs their way through a winding, unstable maze of broken masks; the Knight stands before a broken egg, staring at their own reflection.

A bright light shines in their hand as they strike it, and the world goes white, then dark again; falling into some other dream. ]

[ The darkness abates just a little, enough to see...piles upon piles of broken masks. An eerie, breathless silence.

There is the sound and sight of bodies falling from above. Crunching, crackling noises, soft thuds.

Something stirs. Bone shifts and pushes and the Knight claws their way out, lanternless. Struggling for every inch of life.

They look upwards - something is there, far above. Someone is there, far above.

They have to move. They have to go, to follow. Sibling. Where are you going?

As they climb, a calm, emotionless voice speaks. Quiet and commanding.

(As they climb, the dead and broken rain down from above. Lifeless bodies of children that look very, very similar to the Knight, to the countless broken masks that little the floor of the place they were born.) ]

"No cost too great.

No mind to think.

No will to break.

No voice to cry suffering.

Born of God and Void.

You shall seal the blinding light that plagues their dreams.

You are the Vessel."

[ They keep climbing, ascending, upwards. Something urgent drives them, something they want to reach, someone they want to see again.

They leap and barely make it, clinging to cold metal rather than aged, ancient stone. Having just enough strength to dangle there momentarily.

Silhouetted in the light are two figures; one with a many-pronged crown, glowing with eerie light.

The other is just as small as them. But their horns are noticeably different.

Their sibling looks back at them and their heart seizes with sudden fear, the fear of their future self. The one watching this memory they had long left behind.

Don't go. You'll be lost. You'll suffer- ]

"You are the Hollow Knight."

[ They fall. The door closes. The dream ends in darkness.

The memory lingers on their unconscious body, lying in front of an egg that no longer reflects them, and ends. ]

Edited 2018-10-20 11:16 (UTC)

[ This memory is one of rain, of a ruined city.

The Knight sits on the lip of a fountain and dozes. Waiting for someone, or perhaps just resting in the rain. ]

"What are you doing here, little ghost?"

[ They jerk awake, suddenly. Oh, she's here! Their sister is here. A warm, soft feeling creeps into the edges of the memory, lightening it, changing its colour in subtle hints.

A bug with curved, pointed horns, needle strapped to her back and pink cloak soaked by the endless rain, peers at them through the downpour. ]

"Why did you come back? There's nothing more to be gained here."

[ The fountain. Our sibling. I wanted to look at it. For them.

Their thoughts echo, but of course no words come out. They simply hop off the fountain's edge and point upwards, helpfully indicating what they're looking at. ]

"...I see. Do you remember now? All of it? And them?"

[ She sounds...different, somehow, though they don't know why that would be. But they nod, and...

No, they don't reach for her hand. She's not one to hold hands with them. But they stand next to her, two children reflecting on their lost, sealed sibling, in a silent, broken city.

They are happy she's here. They are happy that she has come to view them, even in a small way, as family too.

The memory ends. ]

Edited 2018-10-20 04:48 (UTC)

[cw for death in the second prompt. ...i'm sorry about the incoming pocket edition graphics but that's just the cut dialogue life.]

[A beautifully red stage sets the tone for Grimm's first memory. Shades of red, black and purples adorn the arena as spotlights and the light of the lanterns hanging from the ceiling illuminate the stands filled will strange masked beings, small to tall. And all of them are focused on the two in the arena's center: Grimm and the Knight. The Troupe Master and the Vessel.

This is not the first time the Knight has faced Grimm. Three to four times were their loss, swallowed up by Grimm's flames. But this time they come bearing a determination that makes them glow and the Troupe Master can feel the excitement of the Grimmchild within him burn.

All words that needed to be said have already been passed on. Both of them knew what the other was here for, the Ritual and the continued growth of the Grimmchild. Now it was time to determine if the Knight was to stand on the stage and take the starring role in their own hands, with their own pure strength.

Grimm bows lowly, a sign of respect the Knight chooses to follow, before vanishing into thin air. The crowd holds their breath.

The dance of shadow and flame has begun.

The Troupe Master's assault begins with a forward dash, swinging his arm down like a scythe only to have the Knight dash through his body, their own turning into formless shade with white eyes. But he continues and propels himself into the air where the Troupe Master seemly explodes into six fireballs that rain down on the Vessel like merciless rain. There is a gap but one catches them, a burning nick, but they keep going. Keep chasing after him like shadows chasing the fire that make them move.

The Knight jumps over the firebats shot their way and strike true with their nail, successfully striking Grimm twice even if he does not flinch from their pure blade. He twists and teleports into the air, rocking downwards towards them with a vicious kick that is masterfully dodged, as is the subsequent slide across the ground.

Grimm can feel his heart pound as the battle goes on. For every flame dodged, every close shave the both of them have from the other's assault he can feel the flames within him burn and burn, to be consumed by the Grimmchild. The Father will feed the Child until there is nothing left to give but Grimm endeavored to give them bright flames until the end.

And what a feast this is! What a dance! Wyrm may have dubbed the Vessel Grimm was against as a failure but the Pale King couldn't have been more wrong. The Knight matched Grimm blow-for-blow, came at him with daunting speed, strength and determination. This was a shadow that demanded greater flames, a passionate dance that he has not had the joy of experiencing in a long, long time.

The crowd has quite a show to watch, a nail-biting dance between two who were fighting with everything they had. Cheering for Grimm whenever he broke apart from the Knight's blows into dozen of bat-bugs and reformed or when he puffed up and spawned seemingly endless flames which were all dodged or endured until the bitter end.

But the end must come. Grimm must fall for this dance to reach its conclusion, to become the middle of the Ritual and bring about the end. And, it seems that it will happen now. Grimm charges forward for another swing while the Knight's body glows with a white light. They swing their blade in one final strike and slash directly across the Troupe Master's chest.

It is like a bubble popping. Grimm jerks back as flames begin to bellow out of his body, unintentionally causing him to cry out from the shock as his heart again stutters to a stop for what feels like an endless second. And then he vanishes. The crowd goes dead silent as the Knight looks around, clearly not expecting that to happen. But then--!

Grimm reappears and he looks perfectly fine. He again bows as the crowd cheers loudly, to die down to an excited mummer as Grimm speaks to the Vessel.

"Bravo, my friend. How the crowd adores you! They've not seen such a show in a long time."

The Troupe Master clicks his fingers and in a burst of flame, the Grimmchild appears. For those who have met Grimm's child on Enso will note that they look remarkably different, their limbs are now numbered at six and are longer like their body is, their shell painted a bright red. The child soon joins the Knight and they look up at the creature as it quietly mews.

"Look here! How our child has grown, nourished and strengthened by the heat of our passionate dance! The two of you will feature in many tragedies and triumphs together, I'm sure."

Grimm was genuinely happy such a thing has happened. The child was to be raised by someone who will cause flame to burn so brightly even if they were bound to the void. That connection between the two, that bond by birth makes it thus.

And frankly? Grimm trusts them to make it happen. But he sees something within their eye sockets, something that suggests that perhaps they know what comes next. What waits for Grimm, now that he was standing at the edge of the cliff.

"And so our great Ritual nears it end. Will you continue to harvest the flame, even though now you surely see the path it illuminates for us? Our scarlet eyes will watch you keenly... friend."

Grimm vanishes on the spot after seeing them look up. Understanding what must be done. He leaves the Knight and the memory with some parting words, echoing in the darkness as it fades.

"Go out into the darkness. Harvest the last lingering embers of this Kingdom. Then return to me and we will complete our dance."

The show was not yet over.]

Edited 2018-10-20 05:06 (UTC)

[It happens an hour after the Knight left the tent. Grimm's heart finally gives in, going from a steady heartbeat to something more suited to a panicked bug.

For eons this has always been the process of the Ritual but it was always a shock when it happens. The moment when, within the Nightmare Realm, the Nightmare King wakes and the moment that Grimm knows his time as the Troupe Master is finally at an end.

The Troupe Master staggers his way down the hallway to where he sleeps, no longer possessing any sense of grace as he goes. He stumbles and presses a hand against his heart, breathing and trying to calm the spasms wracking his body.

Yes, it has been this way since he first walked the waking world. That did not mean it became any easier. But Grimm will keep going. He had asked to be left alone for now but the only one who would come see him if he had not given such an order was...not her.

Grimm had hoped he would have been able to say good-bye to Brumm. What resulted from the end of the Ritual was beyond even Grimm's predictions. He would not have a chance to say his farewells afterwords.

He does not speak as the Troupe Master moves along the hallway but a voice echos in the empty space regardless. But in reality it is only in Grimm's mind he can hear his own voice, rusted like an age-old clock trying to turn its hands. A voice that is as old as the Radiance herself.

"End...Ritual...breathe..."

"Yes." Grimm responds. "I am aware."

He pulls himself up on the platform that will allow him to reach his usual perch but instead of hanging upside down and sleeping, he merely sits. A little longer would be nice.

"It is amusing that I would arrive at Hallownest, yes?" He finally says. "I would not think so after Wyrm..."

The voice interrupts just as fragmented. Almost impersonal, despite it sounding like Grimm himself. "Wyrm and Root...choices made...fates..."

Despite the creeping pain Grimm laughs. How he is able to hold a conversation with a voice that appears incapable of stringing together a sentence is unknown.

But it truly is not that hard to carry a conversation with yourself.

"Perhaps in the end it is for the best it ends here. The dying kingdom ruled by dear Wyrm...to carrying those nightmares away. My friend will collect them and we will meet again."

The Knight will put out the flame of his current incarnation, cast him down from his throne and he trusts them to do it. Grimm knows the moment he sleeps is the moment he dies. He will wake up and no longer be the Grimm that Brumm and Divine knew. That is his fate, the cycle of the Ritual.

The voice is silent but Grimm feels his body gently warm. He chuckles at his own attempts at comforting himself and stands. He hosts himself up onto the wooden beam and hangs upside down, wrapping his cloak around himself.

He does not sleep yet. Instead, Grimm thinks back to everything he is. Commit to memory everything that made up his current self so he would not be forgotten. As his eyes begin to close from the sheer exhaustion creeping on him, Grimm sends out a quiet good-bye.

"Thank you for everything, my dear friends."

"Sleep...the time...is here...."

The nightmare will begin at the sound.]

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

Page 1 of 47

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

OOC || VOTING

OPTION 1

OPTION 2

OPTION 3

OPTION 4

OOC || FORM

IC || MEMORY SHARE

the drifter | ota

a ; the sentinels will find me and switch me off this time

b ; i was ever chasing fireflies

no subject

c ; every calling cost made to your heart

no subject

Re: OPTION 4

+1

the Knight | OTA

no subject

Troupe Master Grimm | OTA

no subject

no subject

i. birth

ii. life

Ardyn Izunia | ota | ffxv spoilers

Shadow and Fire

Nightmares