luxflowmemes | + TDM 001.

luxflowmod posting in

Welcome to Luxflow's first TDM.

Let's get into it.

ARRIVAL

— You wake up encased.

It’s dark, naturally, but a few tendrils of light slip past the — vines? Why are you tangled up in vines? It gives you panic — why can’t you remember — breath quickening, in and in and in again. Your frenzied movements against the vines let in more light, more air.

And you breathe.

As you exhale, a shaky but sure breath against the rough foliage, a light flows out of you. It’s just a little orb that pours out, past the greenery and into that unknown.

The vines melt away into ash, and you’re left standing in a clearing, trees impossibly tall and swaying in the night breeze. Your breath comes in deep and steady, now, and it occurs to you that you should be panicking still … But then as you look around the clearing, you see more vine cocoons, like yours, and others climbing out of them …

There’s people in the center of the clearing. They’re armed but they’re friendly, and they tell you in short and sweet sentences about the place you’re in now …

“ You’re in the Feeding Forest. ” says one, “ This place’ll eat you alive if you can’t break out of the vines. You must be special, huh? ”

Special?

“ C'mon, we’ll take you back to the city. You’re probably here for a while. We’ll fill you in … ”

SPIT SHINE YOUR BLACK CLOUDS

You're trying to get your bearings, but this City stops for no one.

On the next morning after your arrival, there's a festival! It's near the hole, Heart and Center, in the middle of the place. When you arrive there, you're fooled for a moment, and the place doesn't seem so scary; the colors are bright and the citizens are so cheerful as they dance and cheer on the new arrivals to strange music.

No one really knows why they're celebrating, but the arrival of the strange ones feels like it's heralding something good. Maybe there's unheard prayers that are being answered! Maybe their prayers will be answered! There's drinks and food and song, so why not join in? You can get drunk or high or just chill and take it all in.

Yet as the festivities burn on, the locals all hush at some point late in the evening. Words ripple through the throngs, and it reaches you fast. They're going to heave prayers up to the Setting Sun. But first, the great chasm needs an offering from those praying.

They throw in valuables and invaluables alike; drinks and food and clothes and jewelry and weapons and boomboxes are thrown in without a second thought.

What will you offer? If you choose to at all, you'll feel bereft; if it's a memory or power, a light will flow from your mouth and down into the chasm ...

They're silent thereafter in their prayer. Do you pray, too? If you do or you don't, you can't help but feel intense shame, like someone is laughing at you ... Still, after all that, the party continues on.

You're just a little more unsettled, now, a little more uncertain.

SILHOUETTE SALOON

The Silhouette Saloon is open! Or so the signage around town says. Excessive and garish, these signs point characters down a winding path into a place called the Silhouette Saloon. When you enter, everything goes white and everyone appears merely as shadows ... Pretty on the nose, but it provides a strange anonymity.

The fixtures of the saloon are all shadowed out too, stark black against the misty backdrop of white. You can drink here and be free to tell your secrets to anyone who'll listen. The bartender or maybe one of the dancers just finishing their set will tell you that this place keeps secrets.

If you were to tell someone a secret, or hear one, you wouldn't remember it exactly. You would, however, feel a strange nagging sensation about the person who told it to you. Once on the outside, you might not be able to get through a conversation with them without thinking they're hiding something ...

If you don't tell someone a secret, you'll feel compelled to tell someone one once you're out of the Saloon, where the secret won't be so hidden ... It might be better to tell one in the safety of anonymity then, hm?

But the longer you're in there, the more you lose of yourself. You'll forget your name, your purpose, everything about yourself until you pass out on the dance floor. You'll wake up outside the Saloon, stricken with amnesia. It'll wear off after a few hours, though.

PITY'S GOT AN UGLY PRICE TAG

Besides the Drifters and Givers, a new group has popped up. They're called the Pleading, or called plain annoying. They beg for anything you've got from the roadside, calling you over. If you hear them out, they'll hypnotize you in a way; they plead for anything you can possibly spare their poor soul -- the shirt off your back, a memory, an ability. Their sob story goes from believable to something horrifying and personal to you. They'll tell you your mother won't forgive you if you don't, or they'll tell you that the fate of your very best friend hinges on you giving them your wallet.

What do you do?

If someone breaks you out of the grasp of the Pleading's hypnosis, you'll be free.

If you give in, they'll take, and you'll be bereft of what you gave and that will be that.

If you don't, you'll feel immeasurable guilt, mounting more and more with each step ... You might have to be talked out of that guilt, or you might throw yourself into the chasm, inconsolable ...

DIGITAL VEIL ( network )

A question appears on the network. There's no handle attached.

BRUISES OR ROSES OR CRADLES OR COFFINS? WHY WHY WHY? :'D

Answers to this 'question' will be displayed to all; feel free to comment on others, try to gain some sense of what this could mean ... You can also post to the network freely.

QUESTIONS?

Ask below. Have fun.

Threaded | Flat

From:

luxflowmod

From:

reydacted

1. A city in the black clouds

[ This place is odd. She cautiously reaches through the Force, searching but is met with something totally unfamiliar. It seeps through her skin and sits in her gut, alien and unsettling, and it's enough to cause her to draw back into herself.

She observes intently, watching as items are offered. Ceremonies and superstitions were plentiful on the desert planet where good fortune and water were in short supply and value in equal measures. First its things, which she doesn't find that strange, but her eyes widen as light begins to pour out of their throats.

A memory surfaces-- a ship leaving, an echo of I'll come back for you sweetheart --she feels it level in her chest, rising from her heart to her throat. The memory is painful, but precious. It was the foundation of the lies she built around herself and wore like a shield on Jakku. It let her survive, and she can't bear to let it go as foolish as that is. ]

No--!

[ She gasps for air as if drowning, her arms clasping around herself. She stumbles backward awkwardly, undoubtedly bumping into people. She mutters apologies but then forces her way out of the crowd. As she breaks out she can't quite catch her breath, laying her hand over he chest panting. ]

What is this place...

2. Secrets in the Saloon

[ Drinking isn't exactly the hobby she's most prone to participate in, between a life where keen senses were vital to survival and the thinking that it's a habit that her parents chose over her. No, that isn't what drew her here or what makes her stay in her seat at the bar.

This exchange of secrets is a game, and Rey has never been in short supply of those. The opportunity to unload some of them in the safety of this dark place compels her to lean over to a stranger that's been sitting there for awhile. ]

I've been fighting in a war-- [ She pauses, almost in disbelief that this is the one that's falling out of her mouth. ] --But I've got this connection with the enemy's leader. No one knows I've talked to him.

3. No good deed

[ Maybe it's easier to be generous when you know what it's like to have nothing, to have fought for every scrap and spent more nights than you would wish on anyone plagued by hunger pangs.

She's drawn to the pleaders, and the hooks of their hypnosis are sharp and deep. She's entranced, but she's so new here she's got nothing-- The pleader is quick to point out that this isn't true. Her lightsaber, the silver hilt shining, hangs at her waist. She nods. Of course, of course they can have it.

Rey feels as if she's having an out of body experience, watching herself unclip her saber and begin to offer it to the pleader. ]

4. Wildcard

[ Something else? Feel free to hit me with a different starter, PM me, or hit me up on plurk colster ]

From:

cooperatives

I. BLACK CLOUDS.

( it doesn't seem right to do it.

standing at the edge of some gaping hole, haise looks down into the darkness at his feet and wonders what could be there: something so great that it swallows all of these silly little offerings, envelops them in shadows and then forces them to disappear, or perhaps it's that the ground beneath the hole is so far away that there's no sound, no indication of anything hitting rock or dirt or stone and shattering. it makes him feel uneasy to look into it--funny, given how easily he can look at other things, can see blood spattered across skin or flesh torn by mutated genes and not be troubled. this gives him a different feeling--that stomach twist of falling, but not really falling.

he doesn't have anything to throw into it. he feels like he should, for the sake of those around him, like the quiet will swallow him whole if he doesn't. but he can't lose his weapon, he can't bear to part with any bit of his uniform--what else does he have left? he could sacrifice his identification, but there's something about it, about his name printed there all neat and type-blocked, that makes his chest seize. he can't give up a piece of himself.

his eyes, round and worried, seek out a companion. anyone to help him. and then, in a soft, hesitant voice, he asks--)

What did you put in? Anything?

II. SILHOUETTE SECRETS.

( the wine doesn't feel right on his tongue, even if it does wonders to help still his nerves; the liquid, swallowed down, seems to take his heart back with it, nestling it down where it belongs. he's hungry: it's some odd, nauseous feeling he's had since arriving, and he can't quite puzzle out how one goes about getting food or why anything he's had so far hasn't made him feel any better.

alcohol is the next best guess. his lips close around the glass, another mouthful, and he doesn't realize he's got company until he sets back down again, folds his hands carefully in his lap and sits almost too politely, straight up on a bar stool that's meant for slouching. )

I thought I should die. ( the words come, oddly enough, from a voice that sounds cheery enough to share the secret--distant and strange, his gaze focuses on the white space behind the bar. ) If it was going to turn out this way, I should die and get it all over with.

III. CHASM SEEKER.

( no. no, no, no--but what if it's true? what if the rest of his squad is here, desperately searching for him, needing him, and he's nowhere to be found? what if giving up his weapon is the only real way to bring them back to him? shouldn't he be the leader he's supposed to be?

not that one, the sad voice had told him, when he'd brandished his sword in question. the one begging him to give something up. the one inside of you, of course.

there's a part of him that can't quite reconcile with that monstrous part of him: the one that bursts from his body in anger, all red tentacles and gripping hatred, seeking out blood or violence or to protect himself, he's never been sure. it's not something he wants to think about; the result of some faulty operation, but he's still human, isn't he? so why is he so reluctant to give it up?

on his hands and knees, he waits, rocks, a head of black and silver hair mourning the guilt that overtakes him--close to the edge of that giant hole in the middle of the place, he thinks all he would have to do is take a deep breath, throw himself over, and rid himself of all this suffering.

the squad would do better without him too, right? )

IV. NETWORK.

White roses. Nothing red. I don't like the way they look... Ah, there are so many beautiful flowers in the world, aren't there? No need for just red.

WILDCARD

( want to do something completely different? feel free to hit me with a starter, or send this journal a PM. tiny info on this guy: haise is a ghoul that doesn't know he's a ghoul... and as such is a member of the ghoul police, essentially. he's about 22 years old! )

From:

the_brat

Spit Shine

[Vic wasn't sure what to make of everything happening. The sudden stop in their celebrating to pray and make some sacrifices into that chasm. The locals seemed happy about the arrival of everyone here, though, so maybe... Maybe those prayers she was hearing worked? Was that throwing stuff into it thing part of the processs?

Even if it was, what did she have to surrender? Would her prayers even reach back home? Her heart was pounding in her chest. She could hear it in her ears. She still had to save Wayne. She had to stop Charlie Manx. She had to.]

I don't know what I have to give...

[It came out as almost a whimper before a memory hit her. Willa, Drew, and a few other kids from their school had gone to Rhode Island. They were checking out RISD. She gasped as she felt the memory taken from her, hands going over her mouth after it was gone. Almost in the blink of an eye, tears in her eyes. It was such a trivial memory, but it was one of the good ones. One of the only good memories she had in recent year.

She fell to her knees, eyes wide, entire body shaking. The New England girl had no idea where to even begin processing that.]

What the frick was that...?

Silhouette Saloon

[She had been trying. Trying so hard to avoid anywhere that involved anything even remotely to do with alcohol. For Lou, for Wayne... For everyone. But this place... This place was messing with her way too much. She couldn't handle it. That's what led to her decision to even go in. Of course, she wasn't exactly expecting more weirdness to follow.

She would wander around the saloon for a bit, biting her lower lip, not getting a drink, just exploring. Feeling she was losing small pieces of herself. She had to get something off her chest, but the young woman didn't even know where to begin. She just clenched her jaw and stalked her way to the bar, taking a seat and ordering a drink for herself. She'd pound the first down before ordering a second, about to take a drink before sighing.

She stared down at the drink in her hands, debating what to do next. Watching the condensation drip down the sides of the glass.]

I've got a special ability to use a bridge no one else can to find lost things... To find anything or anyone... And I can't even find my own son using it...

[The tone was distant. It was something she was ashamed to even admit to. She was supposed to be strong. If she couldn't be that for Bats, who would be?]

Maybe... Maybe I'm just full of myself and this is punishment for me bein' a shit mom, though...

All About the Price Tag

[Vic had gotten caught by the Pleaders. They were begging for anything. Her wallet, which she didn't have, her jacket which was all she even had for protection. It was something Lou had given her. There was a reason for everything she couldn't give up.

Even as they had told her that Lou and Wayne would want to know she was doing good wherever she was. That she wasn't being selfish to people who could potentially help her get home. To where she could save everyone. Where she could stop Charlie Manx.

That had her violently pulling away from them, though. Eyes wide, jaw clenched as she stared at them for a moment before turning on heel and leaving. Still hearing their pleads. How it's what her family would want her to do. How they won't forgive her for not helping the less fortunate. That had her stop briefly. Maybe not exactly for the reasons the Pleaders wanted, but the words after 'forgive her' had been muffled in her mind. Tears welling in her ears.

She just made her way, subconsciously, almost, to that chasm in the middle of everything. She stared at it, feeling that it was her only escape from that overwhelming guilt she felt in her gut. The only way to properly move onward from what those guys were saying as true. And as she seemed to make her final decision, a murmur of words was said.]

This is for the best...

Network

Cradles. Never been much of a flowers girl, I ain't dyin' any time soon, and I've had my fair share of bruises. Rather not deal with those again.

Wildcard

[Come at me with something else! If you wanna discuss something, hmu

mellzyvee]

Edited Date: 2020-08-20 04:38 pm (UTC)

From:

snakehead

Arrival
If there is a less graceful entrance to this place he'd love to see it. Truly, his ego has taken quite the beating over the last forty eight hours, and stumbling into an unfamiliar city on an unfamiliar planet but still damnably restrained in the federation-issue magnetized handcuffs around his wrists? His day could be going better. He could probably get them off if he had the right rools, but who knows what he'll have access to here? Yes, he is special though, thank you, or at least he'd always loved to believe that. So, green blood still trickling from a cut on his scalp with several bruises, Narek tries to not look like a lost tourist as he looks for something to get his hands free.

Spit Shine Your Black Clouds
Narek has managed to get the handcuffs off of himself one way or another, so sure, he'll celebrate, though he looks perfectly relaxed and cheerfully friendly he makes a point of touching neither food nor drink unless he sees someone else try it first and observes them long enough to make certain it's safe. When it comes time to offer up prayers and objects to whatever the pit represents?

Fuck it. There's a certain satisfaction in throwing the handcuffs into that chasm, even if he instantly feels the guilty loss of wasting a potential resource. His mouth is a thin line as he watches them vanish into the darkness along with the other offerings.

Silhouette saloon
Narek is a cagey bastard and he's pretty sure he's in hell. It seemed great at first, exactly his type of place, to sit and listen to other people spill their secrets.

Narek is made of secrets and they're threatening to choke him, vanishing into the same fog a little bit at a time until he finally has to grab someone by the arm and hiss out a whisper he no longer remembers the reason for, but knows it's a terrible truth just the same.

"... I thought I was doing the right thing."

Digital Veil
What a juvenile little riddle.

I've enough bruises for a lifetime and more. I've no need of roses, real or imagined. Cradles are equally useless for me, but coffins I can put plenty of use to.

How about this one? Say my name and I disappear. What am I?

WILDCARD
[Idk throw something else at me? Will match format!]

From:

guitarheroism

( i. black clouds )

[ camelot had many festivals to celebrate seasons. harvests. coronations and royal ceremonies. hisirdoux had seen them all, even more once he left the timeless kingdom to dwell on earth, watching the centuries pass. this one? definitely one of the weirder ones. douxie wished archie was here. it would feel more comforting to have a shapeshifting dragon-cat on your shoulder. the looks he's getting, oof. reminds him of salem long ago.

douxie raises his hands in the universal gesture of peace, flashing a lazy grin. ]

Sorry, chaps. I've been broke for years. Anyone got a dollar to spare?

( ii. secrets in the saloon )

[ you don't pass nine hundred centuries without accumulating secrets. though not many of his own. keeping the secret of camelot and merlin had been easy. even if it meant lifetimes of dusting and scavenging for a living, moving day to day, hoping the meaning of his master's words would come to him. the fulfillment of his work, his destiny.

but the thought of merlin's passing sobers him quickly in the sudden quiet of the saloon, when the music tapers off in his head and all he can hear is his master's voice.

what a wizard you've become. ]

Am I, master? I risked the world for friendship. Would you have made such a bargain?

[ no. not for friendship, not for love. and . . . not for hisirdoux, his pupil. and more, he tries to tell himself, but the long dark chases away that sentiment. ]

( iii. digital veil | un: paint.it.black )

Personally, I'm more into Guns N' Roses. Cradles and coffins could be a killer song title.

( iv. wildcard )

[ got a different prompt you’d like to do? drop it here or pm this journal! ]

Edited Date: 2020-08-21 12:07 pm (UTC)

From:

enduresurvive

ARRIVAL

Ellie would like to be able to say this is the first time she's completely lost her shit in a forest, but that would be a flat out lie. But this isn't a familiar forest. It's not the wilderness in Jackson where she hunts sometimes. It's not the terrifying jungle of Seattle that she'll never go back to. It's not even the freezing mountain woods of Colorado, somewhere she hopes she'll never see again. This is...different. She fights her way out of the vines, forgetting in her panic to be quiet, not draw attention. Who the hell knows what's out here in these woods? But panic doesn't give a shit if there's infected out there, or yet another group of people looking to kill her for whatever reason.

She's not sure if she's screaming or she's just imagining it. It doesn't matter.

Finally, it clears just enough for her to look around. There are...fuck, are those people in the trees? In...in cocoons? She looks back at the vines she just escaped from and realises that she's not the only one.

"What the fuck," she says, half under her breath, words rushed together. She starts at a noise - a snapped twig, a bird, a rabbit, a shambling clicker, something she completely made up in her head - and forces herself to move away from the creepy cocoons and towards what she (thinks she) heard. She reaches for a gun that isn't there, but somehow these strange (and armed?!) people talk her down and take her back to the city. Once they're reasonably convinced she's not going to start shooting them, one of them hands her a backpack. She recognises it, but she doesn't go through it here in front of them.

Catch her on a bench somewhere mostly out of the way, going through it. The second you approach her, she's likely to turn that handgun on you. Is it loaded? Maybe. Maybe not. As soon as she realises there isn't a threat, though, she lowers it and looks down. "Sorry. Hard to not feel jumpy when I woke up like two hours ago covered in vines."

Alternately, find her wandering around the place, trying to get her bearings. She's less likely to pull a gun on you like this, because she's less likely to spook. But hey, you never know! She's obviously highly on edge, gripping one strap of her backpack with white knuckles.

BLACK CLOUDS

Ellie largely avoids the festival. What the fuck, right, a celebration of people being kidnapped and wrapped up in vines? Yeah, no thanks. Besides, she's just...not sure how to be festive anymore. The past few months bled it out of her. Waking up in that terrifying forest today hadn't done her attitude any favours, either. She still has a sense of humour under there, sure, but this is just a weird thing to be celebrating, feels like.

Someone shoves a drink at her and she hangs around by herself, not drinking it. It's hard to escape everything, so she lingers, not wanting company and not wanting to be alone, either. You can find her like this, staring into her cup, trying to decide if it's safe to drink or not.

Later in the evening, apparently everyone is just throwing shit into a chasm. Ellie can't even manage to be shocked about it, because of course they are! Why the fuck not, at this point. So she just watches them, disapproving scepticism clear on her face.

She catches someone's eye. "What? You don't think I'm going to join in this weird culty bullshit, do you?"

DIGITAL VEIL

bruises because i'm used to them and i'm sick of coffins

ps this is a terrible question

[ I vastly prefer prose but I'll match format. Please see Ellie's opt out page here for possible CWs you might encounter with her. Please lmk if you would like to avoid TLOU2 spoilers! ]

Edited Date: 2020-08-22 07:59 pm (UTC)

From:

tasteofink

SPIT SHINE YOUR BLACK CLOUDS

( Demyan holds aloft his knife, a ritual blade made of obsidian, with an ebony wood handle. He looks towards the person next to him, and speaks: )

Should I offer blood or throw the knife in, you think?

( He sounds just a bit dazed, maybe hypnotized ... )

SILHOUETTE SALOON

( Drinking seems like a good idea, until it isn't.

It makes him a little more liberal with his words, but when he speaks his secret to the person seated next to him, it's interspersed with eldritch words, incomprehensible.

He pauses. )

Iä, iä ... I didn't make any sense just then, did I?

PITY'S GOT AN UGLY PRICE TAG

( Demyan is positively in tears, holding onto the Pleading's hand as they speak to him in hushed tones. He gives them the belt off his pants, then the money in his wallet; anyone watching would know that this creature of compassion is being preyed on ... Help him? )

DIGITAL VEIL

coffins. just nail me the fuck in and let me sleep.

From:

hopesong

[ARRIVAL.]

It's definitely a new way for her to enter a trial with an unknown killer. A new ability, she thinks. One that is for wasting precious time that could have been otherwise spent on getting a generator running to power the gates and get out. It's a harsh blow to her confidence, but she's never been one to give up so easily.

She's quiet as she fights her way out of the vines, strength hardened by- days? Weeks? Months? Maybe even years, at the mercy of killers who would love nothing more than to hang her off a hook and sacrifice her to the Entity that's taken to ruling her life. She manages to get free with some good fighting, and once she's out, she's quick to hide behind a tree, chest heaving rapidly from both exertion and fear, but logic tells her that she's safe, for the moment. Her heart might be hammering, but it's not ringing in her ears, an early warning to deadly danger. Whoever it happens to be, they're not here yet. And- her guitar is here. Her only link to her home. What happens if she loses it? Would the Entity return it? Just the thought of losing it sends a deep anxiety to the pit of her stomach.

The trees here, they're different. They don't feel... oppressive. Even just the sounds are different, there's no low, rolling fog that obscures vision slightly. Kate can't help it, can't help putting her hand to the nearest tree, even though her instincts are screaming at her to find a generator. She'll stay like that for some time, until a sound startles her, makes her duck behind the tree in a flash like a frightened animal and squeeze her eyes shut. Her mind is already keenly aware of the killers who don't make her heart ring in her ears, and they're always the worst to go against. No warning, only being stabbed.

She stays against the tree, in an attempt to hide. Granted, she's probably already been seen.

Alternatively, once everything sinks in, she'll extend the effort, the feeling that she's- maybe not safe, apparently, but she's more safe than she has been in so, so long, and she'll extend a hand to anyone who looks confused, or maybe in need of help, or even just some kind of conversation.

"How're you holdin' up, hun?"

[BLACK CLOUDS]

When morning, an actual morning, not just the dusty twighlight of Glenvale hits her senses, she feels overwhelmed again. Her body hasn't yet adjusted to needed sleep, to needing food and water, and she feels a little delirious for it. But she's holding on, and she's doing her best with a countdown back to zero.

The festival proves a good pick-me-up. She might not have a clue what's going on, but that doesn't mean she can't put on a show too. She hasn't put on a show in what feels like forever, isn't sure if they want some random person to put on one, but the good feeling is contagious, and the fact that she's out of that hell realm...

She strums her guitar, in a moderately populated area, and starts to sing:

"It's been a long dark night,
And I've been a waitin' for the morning,
It's been a long hard fight,
But I see a brand new day a dawning,
I've been looking for the sunshine,
You know, I ain't seen it in so long,
And everything's gonna work out just fine,
And everything's gonna be all right,
That's been all wrong."

She'll sing several country sounding songs, only some of which are her own making, but the first one... Never has Mrs. Parton been a bigger channel for her feelings, no other song she knows of could properly convey her feelings in the moment. She'll also take requests from anyone who wants one.

[NETWORK]

Roses. Haven't seen them in a long, long time. Seen more than my fair share of bruises and coffins, though. Not too sure how much I'd wanna see a cradle where I came from.

From:

coinages

CLOUDS.

[ It's never advisable to lose something valuable--even more when everything has a price. There's always some kind of intrinsic benefit, some of practicality and some of pleasure; he can remember things being taken away from him for this very reason, possessions lost to the whims of his own tantrums and his father's nasty punishments, and maybe that's why he declares everything within the realm of his power as his own things: people and items alike. There's not an item he owns that he is not entirely unwilling to part with, and as his icy eyes scan the people around him, tossing in clocks and flowers and precious jewelry, he almost thinks them mad.

Who would do such a thing merely for some festival? Who would be that ridiculous?

He stands, stubbornly resistant, refusing to even level his shotgun with the width of the darkness there, refusing to even waste one bullet on it--but some things are taken as involuntarily as the stuffed bear he'd lost once he'd "outgrown" it, and a memory of this toy, of that one particular instance of his father's cool rage and cruelty, wrapped into one, comes past his lips like icy breath; it falls, a light that goes dark into the chasm, and Rufus has no idea how it happens or why he's suddenly without it.

Just that the first person he sees staring at him will be met with the snap of a mirror of that cool anger--] Can I help you?

SALOON.

[ It's the taste of dirt in his mouth. Dirt or sand, he can't quite tell--but he hates it all the same, hates that when he pushes himself up onto his elbows, he can't quite remember why he's there in the first place.

His white clothes are sufficiently scuffed, coat unbuttoned and hair a wild blonde mess around his temples; and he can't remember why he's wearing them, either. He can't remember where he is, or why when he gets up onto his knees, there's the sign of some garish bar or something similar--what even is a saloon, his mind spits at him--in front of him, of doors he can't remember being tossed out of, and the frustration of it all makes his lips press together, pursed and angry and a tiny, tiny pinch afraid. Amnesia?

He tries to dust himself off the best he can. There's a gun at his feet, and he doesn't know that he wants to touch it; guns are dangerous things, especially when wielded by someone unworthy of them. He nudges it faintly with the toe of his boot and then, with a sigh, bends again to haul it up.]

Excuse me. [ He asks, of the first person he manages to see.] I'm sorry to have to ask this, but do you... know who I am?

PITY.

For your trouble.

[ He's used to those that beg--even enjoys it, in a sense, especially when he's comfortably laced into a thick leather chair, listening to some hopeless employee prattle on about how they'll do anything to spare the reprimand.

The ones at his feet now are not so dissimilar, though they crave attention as much as they crave money and whatever else they may glaze their eyes on--he doesn't much care. Better to give them something before they take advantage of much more; and his pocket is full of his coins, silver enameled things meticulously carved, enough that he only feels a jolt of displeasure when he thumbs one out and flicks it in the direction of the beggars.

And what do they want? Well, of course--they want the rest of them.

Rufus takes an immediate step back, a firm line of irritation settling in, and shakes his head. He needs a decoy, and fast: so he reaches for the first person he sees, passing by, and hooks his arm in through with this stranger's to offer them a demanding sort of smile. ]

You. Yes. Walk with me. Away from here.

NETWORK.

Bruises, in the right places. Why choose anything else?

ooc:
( got a different idea? feel free to hit me up via PM or just post it below, i'll roll with anything! )

From:

funguy

i. BLACK CLOUDS.

[ There’s no escaping the celebrations. Strange music and desperate cheer leak out even beyond the city center. Though he’s drawn close several times during the day, the crowds both fascinate and spook Joel, who is much more comfortable observing from the less populated side streets. He lurks for a while, an obvious tourist among the eager festival participants.

The quiet that falls in the evening is a bit of false security. He draws closer, curious as music changes tempo and the mood shifts – and then he’s left staring sort of horrified at the sheer waste that unfolds. Everything and anything tumbles down into that deep chasm, and as the enthusiasm of the locals rises to a crescendo, he turns to flee. ]

What the fuck?

[ Not looking, he rams himself right into whoever was standing behind him. ]

ii. SILHOUETTE SALOON.
[ Tired and confused and tired of being confused, a few days after his arrival Joel finally feels his control bend as he turns to follow the signage. It’s the promise of a drink that draws him to the Saloon at first, though the strangeness of the establishment nearly chases him off. The stark white and black is jarring – but hell, so is the rest of this world. At least here there's booze.

Hypocritically, Joel resents the silhouettes for their anonymity – he’d rather be able to see the face of the person serving him his liquor – but this is the sort of place where people come not to socialize, but to drink. And… It’s nice not being seen.

Even nicer is whatever he’s been served. Warm whisky drops his guard with every sip, and though he is glad for the empty seats beside him and drinks in silence at first, Joel is almost eager as he turns to the first person who comes to stand at the bar by his side. ]

I feel like I should miss it more, you know? I lived there, but… Jackson never really felt like home.

iii. PITY’S UGLY.
[ An unsympathetic man by nature, Joel’s first response to the beggars is to ignore them. This works for a while, but they line the streets he’s been roaming in surprising number. He finds them a pathetic nuisance at first, but with how strange everything is to him here, seeing needy people is almost familiar.

They’re bolder than the vagrants from Boston – Joel ends up drawn to a small family of them when a young girl points to his pocket and asks for a bit of the jerky he’d forgotten was in there. That, he has no problem offering. But at once her neediness turns from his snack to his entire jacket, and as he’s shrugging it off and draping it over her shoulders, the girl’s father points to his broken watch. ]

No. [ For a second it seems like Joel might come back to himself, taking a shaky half-step back, but at once the girl is pleading again, her hands around his wrist, tugging at him with teary eyes, needing his watch.

His hand moves to unclasp it for her. ]

iv. ANYTHING GOES.
[ None of the above interest you? Hit me with something else. Brackets and prose both welcome. Let me know if you’re avoiding spoilers for tlou2 and I will be happy to oblige – current canonpoint is very slightly post-tlou1. ]

Edited Date: 2020-08-23 07:58 pm (UTC)

(deleted comment) (Show 2 comments)

From:

gingerjedi

arrival

Cal isn't really given to panic. He was taught from a young age to overcome panic and fear, and he generally does that pretty well. That said, he's also not used to waking up encased in vines in a strange place. He fights the vines because anyone would, Jedi or not. He's still new at having all of his Force abilities restored, so he mostly fights with his regular strength. The Force helps because that's just how it works.

Once clear of the vines, though, Cal notices that something is really off. He can still feel the Force, sure, but something about this place is weird. How did he get here? He can't remember anything that would clue him in there. He might be used to forgetting things, but not like this.

He manages to calm himself enough to look around, take in the sight of the other cocoons, all of that. He reaches for his belt, but he doesn't need to do that to know his lightsaber is still there. So whoever did this, they didn't take his weapon away. That's...actually even stranger. Why leave a Jedi with their weapon? Anyone who kidnapped him, who was capable of doing something like this, they must have known who (or at least what) he was, right? But this doesn't feel like the Empire's tricks, so he's totally baffled by it.

A beep from below him interrupts his thoughts and he looks down, surprised.

"BD-1? Hey, buddy, how'd you even get here?"

The little droid in question beeps again from the forest floor, a series of frantic sounds.

"Whoa, whoa, slow down. It's gonna be okay." Cal has no idea if it is or isn't, but that's not the point. He's just trying to reassure.

You might encounter him here with his droid. Alternately, you might catch him just after coming into town, looking lost just like everyone else who shows up here.

silhouette saloon

Cal only goes into the saloon for answers. Once in there, though, he feels completely shut down. He can't see anyone properly. He can't feel them properly, and that panics him a lot more than the vines had. Someone tells him this place keeps secrets.

"No, I think I'm good," he says, shoving a drink away, trying to find the thread of the Force to ground him. It's far away and strange, but he manages to find it and stumble his way back out of the saloon, drawing in a deep, shaky breath. He tries to shove down his panic again. Well, that was a mistake, wasn't it? He still feels off balance.

Someone approaches, either entering or exiting the saloon. He can't help the compulsion, and it just...comes out, unbidden.

"I...I had a vision," he says, still shaky. "I saw myself becoming something I'm afraid of." He's not supposed to even be afraid. He's a Jedi. Maybe he's the last Jedi alive. He's not really sure; Cere was out there, so maybe there are others. He hopes there are. There are others with potential, after all. But he's not a normal Jedi no matter how you shake it down. Nothing is normal anymore.

He manages to clear his head enough to refocus on whoever just heard that.

"Wow, I'm sorry. I don't know what that was about." But what's said is said.

digital veil; un:kestis

I guess roses, because those sound pretty safe in comparison, don't you think?

[ got another idea? cool, let's do that! hit me with a wildcard or PM me if you want to talk something out first! ]

Edited Date: 2020-08-24 08:44 am (UTC)

From:

suduri

▸ ARRIVAL

This adventure starts on awful footing. Can’t be helped really, when the Second Sister wakes to find herself encased in vines; there’s a tremor of sudden fear as the memories burst violently through her mind, unwanted and unbidden. The sickening realization that she can’t escape.

Trapped in that place, bolted to the chair, the smell of ozone and panic as the torture chair sparks to life.

Submit, traitor.

Her throat tightens. Fear gives way to anger and there is no holding back. Reaching for the lightsaber at her belt, a surge of violent red energy bursts through the vines, peeling them back so that she can break free of this prison. Stepping out into the clearing, she doesn’t immediately put her weapon away.

For a moment, this place almost reminds Trilla of Kashyyyk. Chasing rebellious Jedi, she didn’t have the luxury of staying there long but — no, this place is all wrong. Too different. Feeling through the Force, she can sense something entirely alien to her. Something foreign and sickly.

Looking around, she notes the other pods and likely others trapped within them. For a moment, a single, dangerous moment, she has the urge to open them and free the prisoners inside. It’s an awful, traitorous thought for an Inquisitor; an urge she can barely acknowledge let alone attempt to act upon.

The younglings...what about the younglings?

She makes a noise of disgust that echoes in her helmet. Putting her lightsaber away, the Second Sister moves to find an exit out of these woods.

▸SPITSHINE YOUR BLACK CLOUDS

Of course she doesn’t celebrate along with the villagers. How coarse and unrefined. The sickly feeling of dread hasn’t left her, besides. It’s not the most threatened she’s felt; after the torture, the indoctrination, after Lord Vader, there’s hardly anything that can move her to panic.

But she remains careful and guarded even so, leaning against the front of a tavern and watching the revelers from a distance. Arms crossed, she allows the shadows of the eaves to hide her disdain. Now that she’s spent enough time here, enough to realize this place is far beyond the reaches of the Empire, she’s allowing herself the luxury of removing her helmet. Jacket undone, boots muddied, she could almost be taken for just another traveler.

If not for the Dark Side lingering around her shoulders in place of that familiar black cape. Anger, disgust; such feelings are obvious to those who are sensitive toward them.

“Do you suppose something will come out of there?”

She asks, not expecting someone to answer her. The villagers continue to toss things into that black pit, and she doesn’t quite feel at ease enough to simply turn away from it. Not yet.

▸PITY’S GOT AN UGLY PRICE TAG

Anger is a reliable emotion. It makes her stronger, and that amount of strength is needed to fend off against whatever dangers this place feels compelled to throw at her. Or less than that, simple annoyances like the beggars blocking her way.

She feels them all through the Force. It’s a sickening assault on her senses, something that spills over and threatens to pull her in. Like those vines. This place is nothing but a trap; another test, another torture, and an Inquisitor has only one response to something like this.

“Hands off if you want to keep them,” she threatens from inside her black helmet. Someone reaches for her and she reels back her arm. The assailant is met with an aggressive kick to his chest, her boot unforgiving against his sternum as she uses her bodily strength to send him backward. To teach him a lesson, teach them all not to touch her.

She reaches for the Force, possibly in an attempt to push away this mob. That is, if someone doesn't step in to try and stop her.

▸DIGITAL VEIL

Bruises only serve to make us stronger.

From:

deadanimemom

arrive
[Yuri wakes up.

That's the surprise of it, the thing that she can't understand. She breathes out (breathes, she's somehow still breathing) and light flows out of her, burning away the vines she's wrapped in and she stumbles out, falls to her knees on the ground and--

She's alive. She's alive.

Her fingers dig into the earth, grass and dirt familiar under her hands. It should be snow. It should be a bright, freezing winter day. And right in front of her should be--

Shiro. Shiro, and the babies should be here. They should be right in front of her but as she looks up (too quickly, her head spins and her vision goes black with the movement) she can't see them. There are trees, and armed figures, and other people crawling out of twisted vines and she realizes, suddenly, what happened. This is the afterlife. Not Gehenna, but something else, something she didn't know about and wasn't expecting.

She doesn't move, doesn't go up to anyone else. She just sits, collapsed on the ground, frozen in shock.]

clouds
[She slept last night, collapsed exhausted in an empty bed in an empty room, woke up the next day (the same day? she isn't sure, she isn't sure of anything right now) to the same empty room and the same setting sun outside.

She got dressed in clothes she bought yesterday (because what she had were oversized and ragged and soaked in blood) and went outside. Outside, to a setting sun and... a festival, of some kind.

Yuri wanders around the festival, a short, pale woman with a mass of tangled hair and a dazed expression. She stops to catch her breath and rest more often than anyone healthy should, but she's watching, more and more aware of her surroundings as the day(?) goes on.

She does not pray to the chasm in the ground, does not offer anything. She just watches.]

pity
[As you stand, listening to the hypnotic words of Pleading voices, someone tugs on your hand.]

You don't have to listen to them. [Yuri says, gently insistent.]

It's all right.

Edited Date: 2020-08-29 11:47 pm (UTC)