[The night of May 27th, in the familiar avenue of your dreams, you will finally receive some manner of explanation for the catastrophic mishap that has struck the local network of Stones of Farspeech.]

[The Storyteller is, unsurprisingly, harried in their delivery of this news. Perhaps their stress will be evident in the shape they have currently chosen to assume.]

- stories. I need stories to fix this. I'd not realized things had grown so dire. The monthly upkeep was not enough to sustain this ever-growing, ever-changing fabric, and so I'll require your stories. They may be past or present - it does not matter, but the sooner you can offer them, the sooner I can fix this! From as many different people as possible! Variety is critical. One story from ten people will be more helpful by far than twenty from one!

I...I will fix this. I can fix this. I only need your help to do it. The more I can accrue...

[A moment of consideration, and then - ]

Ten. Ten at the minimum. Ten should stabilize this. Twenty-five will ensure it will remain stable for the next three months. Fifty, and it will remain stable for the rest of the year.

Without your aid, I will be unable to make this right.

[If your character wishes to donate, they may comment to the corresponding top-level below. To ensure that no one goes bankrupt, we will impose a five story limit per character - and only two stories can be used to stabilize the network immediately.

If your character wishes to converse with the Storyteller, they may also do so.]

The world is silent, and the dream-night is absolute. The Storyteller has no commentary to offer you, or warnings to venture, or anything else. There is only the drape of Mu's night and the vision of a campfire, and the means with which you might tell your stories.

Io still awaits, in your waking days. After tonight, Cahypdo will vanish. What happens until then is all routine - and no one has any idea what might be coming.

( 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 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. )

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. )

For once, there is nothing that needs sharing before this particular dream. There is, perhaps, a lingering edge of tension, of anticipation, like a great jungle cat gathering their hindquarters just moments prior to making a leap.

But you knew that already, didn't you?

In any case, everything settles into place with the air of natural routine.

( 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? )

It's beginning to become an awful habit, turning the beginning of these nights into an information session.

Still. It is rather effective.

( Read more... )

Mm, yep. This sure is a tagcloud.