As you made your opinions of the last voting session quite clear, there was no new island in the month of February. However, that does not mean there should never be a new island ever again, which is why the Storyteller has stubbornly resumed the same voting efforts as before. Try and pick an actual island this time, if you please? Each island contains resources and dangers both - there is no reward without a little risk.

Those of you who were with us for October's Storytelling may find this scene familiar - only, instead for four glistening pyres, it's only three that 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.

Beside each pyre is heaped a pile of sticks, colored to correspond to their respective flames. Hopefully it is clear that you must add your stick to whichever pyre you intend to vote for; though if you're confused, hopefully your fellow adventurers will be able to explain it to you.

This will, of course, decide your next island destination, and those abstracted renditions are all you have to go off of.

Once you have cast your votes, what happens next is purely routine.

( 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 )

The Storyteller, when they greet you, has assumed the shape of an osprey. Their silhouette seems somewhat stooped, as though their materialization has come at an effort. When they speak, the words are quiet - nearly a whisper.

"New lands must be found. To that end, I will be absent for the time being. I will do my best to return promptly, but I cannot say when I will next be back."

A pause. A talon scratches the sand. The Storyteller lowers their head, plainly reluctant about what must be said next.

"I also cannot say what might occur, as a result of my absence. Mu is a capricious land that requires my constant mediation. Should it...misbehave, you will at least have the full understanding as to why. I leave you in Harv's capable hands, and - will try not to be gone long."

And with that, the scene transitions to a familiar setting.

( You know what comes next, adventurers. )

The Storyteller paces. A russet-colored muskrat, their brow speckled white, regards the ensemble with a twitching nose, eyes glittering in the imagined firelight, before looking away.

"Two options remain. I cannot be certain of the dangers. And the decision to take those risks, should they come...remains your own."

Those new to the land of LifeAftr may find the words bizarrely abstract, but the purpose will become clear soon enough: travelers are allowed the option to vote for the next island that will join the archipelago of LifeAftr.

( You know what comes next, adventurers. )

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. )

All told, this Storytelling is rather serene. Ziziphus has not yet been charted in full, and so there is no need to look to the horizon for your next destination just yet. It is a moment to breathe and to share your stories, for once without the air of urgency, and hopefully you will find it welcome.

( You know what comes next, adventurers. )

It is a dog that greets you, come the night of the Storytelling. The breed is indiscernible beneath the way the thick ruffs of smoke-black fur hang heavily from their lean frame, the entirety of them as pitch dark as the surrounding, metaphysical night save for the bright pink spot of their hanging tongue.

"I cannot fault you for choosing as you did," they murmur. "We had no way of knowing...we could not have seen what sort of civilization would be involved. If my reach could extend past my home..."

The words seem directed at themself, more than anyone else. With a swift shake of their coat, the dog regards the islanders once more, their eyes glittering in the firelight, rich as garnets.

"Three choices remain. I hope that, for all our sakes, the other islands on the horizon are far kinder than the first. The first will allow access to vegetation. The second, ore. The third, beasts."

There is little point in warnings. After all, it is not as if they predicted the outcome of your first choice - and it is not as though they were pleased to realize what that "civilization" entailed.

( You know what comes next, adventurers. )

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."

( Something else comes next, adventurers. )

Mm, yep. This sure is a tagcloud.