059-061 » the place where you stop the story

[villagemod]

WHO: Everyone.
WHERE: Eastern/Central/Southern Mathias
WHEN: Day 059-061
WHAT: Time returns to "normal" and Mathias grants a reprieve.
WARNINGS: (PM this account to have a warning added!)
NOTES: Plotting post over here! The next log will be posted the weekend of May 15th May 22nd.

RECOMMENDED ♫ Nathan Johnson "Foul Play"

DAY 059-061
A BRIEF REPRIEVE
“There is no real ending. It’s just
the place where you stop the story.”
— Frank Herbert
Residents awake to a peaceful morning with the sun shining and earth remaining still. There is no unsettling shaking to rouse them at dawn, and time has continued moving onward as they slept. Whatever state they were in the night before, they remain that way now, for good or for bad.

On the surface, there seems to be little lasting effect on the tiny town from that strange series of days, save for the memories of any traumatic experiences residents may have faced — but there are always consequences within Mathias. The perpetrators of acts against the town are tormented by nightmares of those acts being used against them, and those who did not raise a hand to stop those acts of destruction may yet face consequences of their own. For now, however, the unwilling townspeople should do their best to rest and recover from the disturbing ordeals of late, for this reprieve from the madness shall surely be shortlived.




THE NEW ARRIVALS
The newest arrivals to Mathias will wake up on the beach near The Grey Gull. It's a bit chilly out with their wet clothes, but surely there's something to help warm them inside the restaurant. They may even find some alcohol within — and not just the cowboys' homemade moonshine.

---

CONDITIONS UPDATE

— THE HISTORY MUSEUM has not fared well with the return of "normal" time. The once esteemed wooden building is now a charred ruin, the recent fire leaving behind little of the contents within for study. The structure is unstable and it is not wise to venture into the ruins for long.

— THE WEATHER conditions remain fairly typical for early fall: warm days and cool nights. It feels almost like spring arriving except that there fewer red and orange leaves on the ground and more of them oddly returning to the trees and slowly fading to green. It's like watching one of those nature documentaries that have a timelapse of the seasons, only it's going in reverse.

— THE FOG has retreated from some areas!

— Residents may now wander the southern stretch of the forest surrounding Mathias Township — it is possible to leave the paths but potentially unwise to do so.
— The fog has also retreated farther into the western section of town, now stretching across town between Stine Road and Shelley Drive. This has revealed the Chasm in the earth that stretches from one side of town to the other between Stine and Hill Lane.
— Access to the northern section of the forest is still blocked beginning a few dozen yards past the treeline; this section of fog will urge residents to stay huddled within the town proper by inducing a physical reaction of panic and fear.

— DEATHS & DISAPPEARANCES continue! Max Guevara has vanished into the fog. Claire Novak's body can be spotted on Day 059 facedown at the bottom of the Chasm between Hill and Stine, near Phillips Drive; by the morning of Day 060, her body will be gone. (Attempts may be made to reach her body but will likely not end well for those involved. Such attempts should be reported under Exploration.)

— ALCOHOL is still in Mathias! Just barely. (Supply is running very low after recent town events.) A small stock of beer and cheap wine may be found at the General Store, and some homes may have a small store of alcohol in the fridge or pantry. The Grey Gull was also restocked with its lower-end offerings of a variety of alcohol types. (Alcohol does not replenish as food does.)

---

OOC NOTES

— PROJECT HELP Your mod needs help with some projects!

— FUTURE PLANNING If you haven't, please answer the questions here for future log planning. I will almost definitely need some of these answers for the log going up the weekend of May 15, so act quickly! Late submissions will not be considered for that log.

— UPDATES Don't forget to report updates as they come up! Changes to locations (like toppling a few bookshelves in the library), big plots you have coming up that will affect the game (parties, major property destruction, etc), or exciting discoveries that may tie into the game's mythology (even the things provided by the mod) are very helpful to have in one place so relevant page updates can be made.

— MOD STATUS The usual reminder that it's just Amy steering this ship, so things will are going to be pretty slow for a while. Apologies in advance, and please don't feel shy about pestering me if you're stuck waiting for something.

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Evening 60 - OTA

[walkingtrigger]

After grabbing a shower and some dinner Tim packed up his lanterns and a fresh bottle of moonshine and headed back to the Historical Society.

He left the door propped open, as he had the night before before disappearing into the stacks of papers and books. Tim actually had something resembling a sorting system worked out and could be found taking swigs out of his moonshine bottle and sorting paper well into the night.

Was he avoiding sleep? Mayyybbee.

[skladka]

He finds comfort in the shadows, a pleasant feeling of ease in the dark. The Darkling is unsure if he's learned this experience or it comes natural to him: perhaps his power calls to him among every fold of inky blackness, every whisp and flicker of shadow. Perhaps he just likes dim lighting because no one bothers him at night unless it's urgent. Regardless, he finds himself exploring despite the late hour.

He's been here for a day, if that. Enough for him to realize two very important things: one, that the possibility of him returning home anytime soon is slim to none, and two, that he doesn't know a single fucking thing about where he is. It sets his jaw tight, the inability to have knowledge right at hand. He's a leader of an army, a powerful general and an even more poerful Grisha, and here he's so useless he has naught to go on save for a few strangers' advice and a fuzzy idea of the village's layout. It makes logical sense that he'd find his way to the Historical Society. What he's not expecting is for someone to be there first, and, by the looks of it, seem quite comfortable as he reads. A routine, perhaps, and one he'd just walked in like he'd owned the place.

"Forgive me. I'm interrupting." The Darkling's voice is soft as he enters, voice distinctly british, tall and imposing. He wears his kefta, a long black embroidered coat, and while it's clean there's a fair amount of tears and slashes dotting the cloth. He's had a rough few days, sue him.

[walkingtrigger]

Tim was a good quarter of the way into his bottle of moonshine which tended to help in terms of his often on edge awareness. Which was the explanation he was going to tell himself to explain how this man had come across the doorway and into the space without Tim realizing he had company.

He looked up from where he was sitting, cross legged in the middle of piles of papers dark blue eyes making an assessing sweep of the interloper, including the kefta. Even in it's tattered state it was definitely a fashion statement, supporting the air of command that drifted from the man's voice and the way he carried himself.

Tim wasn't entirely sure what he thought about this stranger but he offered the man a polite nod of his head.

"It's a public dwelling," he drawled, sounding proper hillbilly in contrast to the General's smooth British. "Make yourself at home." Tim had picked up the bottle of shine and gestured gracefully, as if bowing the General into all corners of the building, before taking a very long swig off the bottle.

[skladka]

It's another accent, one that sounds familiar in a way he can't place. The first one he'd met here, Raylan, the Marshal--he'd had some things similarly, a strange harsh cadence that came across as soft. From the same world, perhaps.

He understands it well enough, including the invitation to get a little more comfortable, gaze flicking to the jar of moonshine as he moves further in the room from his spot at the doorway, surveying the place proper.

"Researching?" It's a casual, open-ended question, gauging the other's temperament. If he's the man who doesn't mind questions, the Darkling has them in spades, but the thought of trying to pry information out of someone irritable is both an exhausting thought and a pointless endeavour.

[walkingtrigger]

Tim was known for his conversational brevity, particularly around strangers. But moonshine loosened many tongues, and moonshine combined with a lack of sleep left the younger marshal positively sociable.

"Sorting," he responded, capping and putting the 'shine down. "Most of this is garden variety small town bullshit, but I only just got started. Might find something worthwhile in here, but not until there is some sense of order in all this chaos."

He glanced back up towards the man. "You're new." A statement, not a question. "Tim Gutterson. I'd offer my hand but it's covered with dust and ink that may or may not end up killing me in my sleep."

[skladka]

It's the thought that matters. There's a flicker of amusement in his dark eyes, surveying the other carefully. He doesn't seem annoyed, just busy, and his gaze moves over to the pieces of things the other had been occupied with before the Darkling entered.

"At it a while, then." He nods in confirmation that he's new, and he stops walking to examine a shelf filled with what he assumes are documents or tomes of some sort.

"Kirigan," he introduces. "What is it you intend to find, after sorting?"

[walkingtrigger]

Tim gave an up-chin-type-nod of acknowledgement to the name, before he looked back down at the piles of papers.

"If this town holds true to form the best I can hope to find is book of SPAM recipes," it was true, he did not sound particularly hopeful. Yet here he was for the second night in a row, putting in the work.

"But on the off chance something goes our way? Anything about fires, a tall dark man, tunnels, where all the wildlife went and maybe human sacrifice." This might not really be the best 'hello, nice to meet you' topic of conversation, but ... moonshine.

[skladka]

The Darkling nods. Yes, SPAM, he absolutely knows what that is (he doesn't, but it would be rude to point that out). It's clearly a witty remark despite being lost on him. He stops moving about and examining things when the other continues.

Hello, indeed. His lips quirk up into what almost appears to be a smile, however tight, and he glances over at the other's headlines.

"I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to elaborate," he says softly, simply--a gentle suggestion when he desperately wishes could be a command. "May I sit?" He's motioning to a chair next to Tim, brow raised.

[walkingtrigger]

Oddly enough the General would probably find Tim responding with proper military deference to a superior officer, were he aware of the man's own military service. But at the moment, probably as a result of the moonshine, his usual instinctive recognition of other service men was failing him.

Tim was on the floor, but simply shrugged and waved a paper laden hand towards the nearby chair, his eyes going back to the newspaper he held.

"I am afraid my ability to elaborate is a touch stilted. I've only been here a couple of weeks. There are others here with a lot more experience to share." The newspaper basically just covered a local 4-H style county fair. Tim moved to add it to the pile of fuckalluseless newspapers. "What would you like to hear about?"

[skladka]

[ The Darkling carries himself differently than most soldiers: perhaps it's a difference in worlds. He's not presenting as such anyway, preferring to keep his head as low as possible, just in case. He hasn't seen anyone from Ravka, but there's always a chance of recognition through title.

The atmosphere in the room is oddly pleasant, if the general state of the village itself is stifling--there's something about how seemingly at ease the other is with this that causes the Darkling to almost follow suit. He's never truly comfortable anywhere, but when he sits there's far less rigidity in his posture, peering down at the other on the floor. He shakes his head. ]

Any experience is good experience. It shapes you. Let's start with the fires--recent, from the looks of things?

[walkingtrigger]

[ If he knew Kirigan was a General Tim would have not given him the incredibly unimpressed look he shared at the words 'It shapes you.'

Moonshine. The fact that this man was not a criminal. And a genuine attempt at not being an asshole off the blocks, kept Tim from calling Kirigan on the philosophical bullshit. But he still earned a trademarked Gutterson Glare.

It was gone in the next moment as Tim looked back to his paper sorting past time. ]

Yeah a couple residents decided it was S'More weather and got their campfire going. We were stuck in a bad Bill Murray movie, kept repeating the same day, for I dunno how many days. As it went on, seemed like a good time to test some ideas. [ Yeah that's what we'll call it, 'testing ideas'. Not, the Givens' temper going off the deep end and providing a template for other firebugs. ]

[skladka]

[ The Darkling draws his lips tight, looking down at the other, dark eyes glittering. It's the fifth or sixth time in the span of two whole days that people have spoken to him like this. It's not a matter of manners--the Darkling is no stranger to speaking with commoners, with being a commoner--it's the words that make absolutely no sense to him that annoy the absolute fuck out of him. He forces a smile, slight, pained. ]

I don't know what any of that means.

[ And oh, how he fucking hates it, admitting that he's lost. ]

[walkingtrigger]

[ Tim looked up with a confused expression. He opened his mouth to inquire how Kirigan had gotten through life without meeting a S'More but managed to avoid shoving his foot in there. Instead he apologized. ]

Sorry. [ It was sincere, promise! ] Raylan told me that people from all manner of places and times come here. I really need to work on being more culturally sensitive.

S'Mores are a dessert a lot of people associate with outdoor camp fires. The other ... [ How to explain Bill Murray ... don't. ] It's a plot device in fiction where a person, or people live through the same day/circumstances over and over again. It's based in the lore of a morality tale, as the individual who is aware of the looping has to discover something about themselves or address something they've been avoiding in order to break the cycle.

[ Sorry Kirigan, apparently drunk snipers are also loquacious snipers. ] We had our own version here, just before you came. Though I don't know if anyone learned anything about ... [ Uh. Tim. Kitchen, Day 56? ] Well we didn't learn how to get out of here.

[conning]

Neal slipped out of 1306, inadvisably, he knows, after the others had gone to bed. He's doing some kind of loose patrol when he sees the light in the Historical Society, the door propped open.

Frowning slightly, immediately on high alert, Neal pokes his head inside. He stops when he sees Tim. His contact with the other man has been minimal, and after everything Malcolm has said to him about their interactions, Neal hasn't put forth much effort to change that.

Still. He doesn't want to be some weird presence in the night, poking his head in and walking away without a word.

"You're up late," he says, a hint of irony in his tone.

[walkingtrigger]

The sniper was still sitting in the middle of the floor, sorting papers. However the various piles were starting to become significant towers, neatly stacked and if anyone checked, in chronological order.

No mean feat for a man who was three quarters of the way into a bottle of moonshine.

Tim glanced up eyebrows arching slightly at Neal's somewhat disheveled appearance, but he did not know the man well enough to comment on it.

"Hard to drink while asleep," he offered by way of an answer, leaning over to gather a messy stack of magazines to start sorting through.

[conning]

Neal snorts quietly. "You must have a hell of a tolerance."

He steps inside, studying the piles with interest. "Find anything worth remarking on?"

[walkingtrigger]

Figuring that was a statement, rather than a question Tim didn't bother speaking towards his tolerance levels. Best just leave that dog lie.

The piles were infinitely more interesting and Tim motioned towards one pile he'd set up on the table. "No grand eureka moment," he said with a sigh. "But those newsletters end on a curious note."

The motion of his hand was invitation to Neal to peruse at will.

[conning]

Neal tilted his head, bemused, and headed for the pile in question. He sifted through a few of the articles before skipping to the one on the bottom.

Then he stared at it for several seconds, goosebumps prickling over the back of his neck. "I went into the museum. Before it burned down. There was an empty glass display case. The label said it was supposed to contain ceremonial knives from the mid-eighteen hundreds. But there was another note that said they were in storage until after 'the rite'."

[walkingtrigger]

Tim looked up from what he was reading when Neal began to talk and after a brief pause he nodded.

"That foots," he said in a pensive tone. "Evidence seems to be pointing towards routine human sacrifice. But that article now leaves me wondering if being the honored guest was considered a blessing or a curse."

Human sacrifice was bad. That was how they had been raised and the default mental setting hardwired into the lizard brain. But the editor's goodbye sounded genuine, yet happy.

[conning]

Another little shiver runs through him. "That or he was the one doing the killing. But then why wouldn't he come back?"

He frowns. "And if the knives were going to be used in it, why refer to them as 'in storage' and not... something else."

Neal sets the newsletters back down and rubs his face. "I feel like trying to investigate this town is kind of like wandering the shelves at a library in an old mansion hoping you pull on the right book to open a secret tunnel."

[walkingtrigger]

"There are plenty of those around apparently," secret tunnels he means.

He starts to comment on the knives being in storage and the "rite" when a thought comes to his moonshine soaked brain.

"I wonder if that's why there are no edged weapons available around here," he said in a pensive tone. "What if all edged weapons were somehow placed in storage around the time these 'rites' were performed?"

[conning]

He turns around to brace his lower back against the table, crossing his arms. "That's a possibility. But why no other weapons, either? Somewhere out of the way like this, people hunt. There aren't any guns, any bats, no loose chains... Nothing obvious that you could repurpose for self-defense."

[walkingtrigger]

"Wouldn't surprise me if that was the point," Tim exhaled and gave a shrug, reaching for the bottle of almost completely consumed moonshine.

"I have no evidence to support the theory, but everything I learn about this place reminds me of fictional writings I've come across in the past. Stories or an entity or entities that give power to a handful in return for that handful supplying them with blood, terror, pop caps off diet sodas."

Which, for a man who lived in a fairly vanilla version of Earth, was a hell of a thing to even admit to believing. He upended the bottle finishing off the contents without sparing a thought to his liver or stomach.

"All of this," he motioned around them. "It reads like that balance got upended somehow and this town suffered it."

[conning]

"'And the smoke of their torment goes up forever and ever, and they have no rest, day or night, these worshipers of the beast and its image, and whoever receives the mark of its name.'"

Neal pinches the bridge of his nose. "The spirals all over town--some of them repeat. There's a cave under the lighthouse with walls covered in them. There's no pattern to whether they're open or closed, the openings don't face a specific way, there's no specific pattern, but they repeat. It's like some kind of code I haven't found the key for yet."

He brushes his hand across the table, picking up dust on his fingers. "Doesn't help that it's one of the most universal spiritual symbols in the world. Passage from life to death, connectivity with the divine, the journey from the outer world to inner soul and cosmic awareness. Passage from ignorance to knowledge. Rebirth. It's about evolution, change, and growth, again almost universally, but that does absolutely nothing to narrow down what it might mean here."

[walkingtrigger]

"What if they're representation of an anxiety spiral?" Tim suggested with a pensive look on his face.

"The ones I've seen have been in conjunction with a depiction of a three lobed eye. If someone, or someones were seeing an entity like that hanging around them? Well I believe I'd be inclined to suffer an anxiety spiral of my own."