After the chaos of last month's Storytelling, it's probably nice to have a little routine involved. Compared to the bombast and terror of October, tonight is downright peaceable.

Maati still awaits. But for now, you can rest and relax and trade tales of your exploits.

( You know what comes next, adventurers. )

"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...

( it doesn't matter )

In the wake of what has occurred on Ziziphus, the Storyteller has not appeared for this night's sharing of tales. The campfire is ever-present, but a morose air hangs over the flames nonetheless.



There will be no voting this time around either. It seems the Storyteller is due for a break - and so are the rest of you.

( You know what comes next, adventurers. )

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.

( Wait...what does come next, adventures? )

This Storytelling is prefaced with another oddity; a snow-white ape with a set of dark antlers flowering out from the crown of their head has hunkered down before a great stone door - the same as the one that some may have seen in the monkeys' compound, or that older inhabitants may have seen in the temple set upon the island's mountain. The symbol rears out from the stone with glaring impenetrability.

The Storyteller eyes it for a brief moment before turning to face the dreamers.

"It seems we are at an impasse," they say, matter-of-fact as ever. "In the end, certain consequences cannot be avoided. This symbol limits my influence and keeps me out from whatever lies within. And therefore, by extension, all of you."

Can you tell where this is going, islanders?

"If there is something hidden in the chambers of this island - my home and yours - then it may be dangerous. It may be helpful. And it must be evaluated." Their tone brooks little to no argument. Mostly, as it happens, the latter. "It is for this reason that I have brought you here somewhat earlier than usual. You may need to arm yourselves for what approaches."

May is the pivotal word there, but with so much of the future steeped in uncertainty, caution is surely the wisest course of action - even the necessary one.

"Tell your stories. Keep faith with one another. Beyond these doors, my reach cannot save you, but that does not mean you are helpless."

On that solemn note, the dream warps, slowly settling into the warm light of a large campfire.

( You know what comes next, adventurers. )

The familiar sensation of not sitting quite within the realms of reality is what greets you when consciousness first strikes. Opening your eyes, you may be one of the plenty who find the large, imposing door before you familiar - then again, perhaps not.

Sitting on the door itself is a large bearded dragon. Introductions probably aren't necessary at this point.

"One would think a god would be more aware of new additions to their home - perhaps thousand year naps are counterproductive in that regard." They flex their claws against the stone, beaded eyes concentrated on your form. "A good sign, wouldn't you say? The answers we all seek may rest below this very island."

That said, the door itself remains closed.

"It will take me a little longer to give you all access; in the meantime, I will refill the mana pool located in these ruins. Come and go from this place as you please. And do mind the heat, won't you?"

With that much said, the dream warps, slowly settling into the warm light of a large campfire.

( You know what comes next, adventurers. )

This should, as of the last dream, be a far more familiar setting than it was prior. The flames flicker with an almost hypnotic effect, and round slabs of driftwood form log-like seats around the bonfire. This time, however, you are not alone with the elephant or rabbit or dog or Storyteller in the room - and they are in the room, taking whatever shape they deem most suitable for the situation.

This dream is shared.

One by one, you will each have the opportunity to share your stories. Stories have a certain power that cannot be replicated or cast aside. As far as those for whom this is their first Storytelling, the Storyteller will not require that the story itself take place in LifeAftr, though all Storytellings from this point onward will.

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. Longer, more entertaining anecdotes will be far more appreciated - and, indeed, useful, - than the verbal equivalent of a third grader's "What I Did On Summer Vacation" essay.

So choose your tale wisely.

[In the late evening of the 15th, you find yourself sitting at a campfire, surrounded by total darkness. The cheerful light and warmth of the flames emcompasses but a few feet from it’s source, the rest of the world hushed and perhaps...absent entirely.

Beside you, a white(?) rabbit, almost as tall as yourself while sitting down, finishes dutifully cleaning one ear with a sigh, staring out into that pitch black with an almost forlorn expression.]

The problem, when one is a god, is that time… time is a much smaller concept, [they say.] One century, you can be at the peak of your splendor - and yet one tiny, thousand year nap, and everyone forgets about you.

I realize you all have many questions. I would like to make an attempt to address them.

( From the same point of view )

Mm, yep. This sure is a tagcloud.