Those of you who were unlucky enough to perish following the current events will find yourselves waking just in time for the backdrop of a dream to swim into view. By the stroke of midnight on the 23rd of August, all the effects of the shattered merotome will fade.

You are yourselves for the night. Tomorrow, the penalties for the dead will settle in.

Better take advantage of your health while you can.

( You know what comes next, adventurers. )

Once a month, the texture of your dreams draws you together in a communal space where your stories may be shared with one another - or with the Storyteller alone, if you so choose.

Now, it's worth noting that the current physical...shenanigans at play in the waking world may creep into Mu as well. You may arrive here capable of vocalization, but looking rather unlike yourself. You may still be in someone else's body entirely. Or you might be restored to normal, just for one night. The call is yours!

Just remember that the types of stories you can tell are dependent on how long you've been here, and that's not likely to change, even despite extenuating circumstances.

What's more is that you've run out of voting options, dear islanders. The last island available this round will be the one that lost out on everyone's favor: the one represented by crimson flames, a crowd of people, and the coils of some great thing far above their heads.

All you can do now is wait for it to appear.

Once you get rid of that pesky Clown Box, that is.

( You know what comes next, adventurers. )

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. )

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. )

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... )

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.

Mm, yep. This sure is a tagcloud.