villagelogs | 059-061 » the place where you stop the story

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059-061 » the place where you stop the story

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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This isn't the first time Jeff's woken up on the beach, barefoot and confused, with some chunk of time missing from his head. It's... not even the second, really, and he doesn't want to think about how much bigger the number would be if you take out the specifics (barefoot, beach) and just count the blackouts. After a while, he'd stopped keeping track.

So the confusion, the panic, it's familiar, in all the ways he doesn't want it to be, makes him sick by some decades-old association. There's something frantic in his movement as he scrambles back from the water, as if convinced that it'll pull him back in. Taking some gulping breaths, he looks around, trying to get some context for fucking anything here. The where, when, and how of his situation. This isn't any beach he knows, and god knows how much time has even passed since he was... what was he doing...?

His eyes land on his guitar, sitting a few yards away in (thankfully) dry sand. That's right. He'd been in his bedroom, smoking, jamming, and then... Blank. And now he's here.

As if on autopilot, Jeff moves for his instrument, plucking it out of the sand, his heart banging around a little hummingbird that got trapped in his chest. Just breathe, Calhoun. Don't even think. Just breathe, and move, and walk to that building over yonder. Act calm, act normal, find a person and get some basic fucking answers.

Guitar in hand (like, what, a traveling bard of yore?), he walks into the Grey Gull with a cheerful smile, trying his best not to look like he's totally freaking out inside. It's... mostly empty, which isn't all that promising, but hey, maybe this is just a sleepy town, or the restaurant isn't open yet, or... some other fucking thing, who knows. At least there's a fire going, and one other person, and the guy seems like he belongs here, so that's a plus. Jeff's absolutely going to make an eager beeline for him.

"Hey! Hi! Hello there!" Jeff waves. He's totally fine, totally normal, and he comes in peace! "Uh... Are you... open?"

What, obviously the guy's the manager, or owner, or something.

The Darkling isn't sure what he's expecting when the door opens. The owner, perhaps. One of the soldiers in his command, somehow having found him. Someone who has answers, or perhaps even the little tracker boy that had thrown him to creatures to be torn apart, back to try to finish the job.

What he gets is another stranger, hair wet, and he finds himself visibly taken aback at the friendly wave and the friendly tone in his voice. It's oddly refreshing in a way that's both grating and magnetic. His hand relaxes by his knee, subtle: he doesn't view the other as a threat. The Darkling rises, and...

Hold on, is that an instrument with him? He doesn't bother hiding the flash of confusion that bubbles up around his usually stoic features before he shakes his head, fixing the other with a look of something close to worry.

"I'm afraid I'm not the owner. I woke up on the beach only an hour or two ago." He's getting a separate chair without prompt, setting it next to the one he's using, a silent indicator for the other to sit and warm himself. The chair with the long embroidered coat remains exactly where it is. He's not entirely without sympathy, being wet sucks, but his kefta is important to him, so a separate chair it is.

"You're the first person I've seen here," he confesses, voice smooth. The other has an accent that's completely unrecognizable to him, but it's easy enough to understand.

"Oh." There's a little bit of disappointment in Jeff's face as the other man admits he's equally lost here. So... that makes two of them, two people waking up on the beach. Are there others? Are there even any townies or...

"Well..." Wait for it, he's gearing up to say something, some theory about their predicament, some cool observation, some proactive planning from Jeff Calhoun, man of action. "Fuck."

He practically wilts down into the offered seat, thinking nothing of the coat getting its own chair, like it's a placeholder for some invisible man, or, maybe, and much more likely, just needs a place to dry.

Jeff keeps hold of his instrument as he sits, one hand on the guitar's neck, his other arm resting on the body, fingers dangling, hovering just over the strings. It's almost like he's about to play a song.

Or, at least, it's just the most natural position to take when he's sitting with a guitar. Fuck, like he could actually play anything but a muted, tinny ghost of a song, without an amp. He's got the unplugged electric guitar blues!

"Do you... think there's others? What if it's just us? What if we're all alone here? Ohh--" His eyes widen as he draws in a breath, a lightbulb of dreadful possibility going off in his head. "Dude, what if some weird rich asshole had us abducted so he could hunt the most dangerous game!" A gesture to the two of them, as if Jeff is equally as formidable as the man before him. "Man..."

Edited 2021-05-15 10:23 (UTC)

It's a lot. The Darkling watches him, dark eyes glittering with curiousity: the way his hands rest by the instrument, a comforting gesture, perhaps? Or one that's merely familiar. Both, maybe, not that he has much time to figure it out: the stranger begins what the Darkling can only describe as ramble, and it takes roughly two seconds to realize it's doing nothing but working the other in a tizzy. He holds up a hand, jaw tight, voice commanding and incredibly calm.

"Stop."

He rises, immediately moving to the bar, talking as he does so. "Worrying at this point in time is pointless. Theorizing can come later, after we're dry. For now," he pours the other a glass of the same moonshine he'd been drinking, courtesy of whatever kind soul had been here previously. "Start with something simple." His head cants to the side, offering the other the glass. "Your name?"

Surprisingly, the command works. Jeff was already gearing up for more doomsday spiraling speculation, opening his mouth to launch into another theory, when he just. Stops. He lets out a breath and nods, almost relieved, like his mouth had been on autopilot until the other man told him to knock it off.

Wild speculation isn't helping.

Jeff watches as his fellow abductee moves to the bar, seeming to radiate a calm, controlled presence, which Jeff can't exactly relate to, though he's always admired how some could just be so composed. He's always been too much, himself; too jumpy, too flighty, too animated. All limbs and no poise.

Carefully, he sets his guitar aside and joins the other man at the bar.

"Jeff. And you're...?" He smiles apologetically as he waves a hand at the drink. "Oh, ah... Thanks! But I think I should stick to water right now."

Tempting as alcohol is, he doubts he'd stop at one drink. Then they'd really have a mess on their hands.

[ No alcohol? The Darkling doesn't bother to hide his surprise, although he doesn't push it. Another glass of moonshine for him, then, and he grabs the other a glass of water. See? He can play nice. He's done it before. And at the very least, the panicked rambling has stopped--it's a win-win situation. The warmth calls to him, beckoning him back, and he makes his way towards the fire. ]

Kirigan. [ It's one of his aliases, his most recent--he has a sneaking suspicion that being called 'The Darkling' in a place like this probably isn't a wise choice, despite the fact that no one seems to know who he or his family is. ] I'd say it's a pleasure to meet your acquaintance, but under these circumstances, I'm not so sure pleasure is a word in my vocabulary, currently.

Did that instrument of yours wash up with you?

After twenty years sober-- well, mostly sober, with a few hiccups here and there-- Jeff's used to that look. And booze was never even his drug of choice, anyway. (Drugs, if we're being honest.) But Jeff's always had a problem with moderation, in pretty much all forms, so it's easier if he just sticks to his personal rules. One drink, and only for happy occasions. This, he figures, is so far from a happy occasion!

So he smiles brightly at the offered water, says his thanks, and follows Kirigan like a lost puppy back to their seats by the fire.

"Who knows, maybe this is all a misunderstanding, and we're here for a totally awesome reason, like-- Oh! An elaborate surprise party!" He grins, as if that'll convince himself, let alone Kirigan, that it's totally plausible. "Then it'd absolutely be a pleasure."

Yeaaaah, they're definitely not here for a party.

"And, ah... Yeah. It's funny, because the last thing I remember-- you know, before waking up on the beach? The last thing I remember was jamming by myself, just me and my guitar. Then I must've... spaced. Blacked out or something." He tries to say it casually, with a shrug, like it's totally a hypothetical that just came to him, and not something he's had too much miserable experience with. But maybe he's trying too hard, coming off as too casual, too forced.

"What about you? What's the last thing you remember?"

There's something under the surface, something rippling through Jeff's words that the Darkling can't quite place. It's like a loose thread in a kefta, something that can be pulled at, something that points to unraveling the other. He watches the other cooly, setting his gaze linger on his new aquaintance, making sure to twist his face into a careful neutral position. What if he tugs? What if the Darkling were to nudge the other, just a little, just to see what's under the surface of the rambling words and easy-going stature? Is it just nerves, or something more? A weakness, just in case he needs to exploit the other?

He files it away for later, and takes a sip of his own moonshine. The liquid in the glass is almoist done, and his chest feels as warm as the fire they're near. Jeff asks the question and his gaze slides to the brilliant flames, face softening.

'I don't have to kill you, Darkling.' The tracker boy's words cut through his thoughts, floating out of reach but still cutting to the quick. 'Your past will do it for you.'

"Pain," he answers softly. Maybe that's what's under the surface for Jeff, too, something underlying the maundering speech. Maybe if he tugs on that thread they'll have something in common.

"Pain, huh."

As far as answers go, it's vague, lacking in the specifics of what Kirigan was doing in the last moments before washing up, but also oddly precise, cutting right to the core of it all.

And Jeff has no poker face to speak of, so he winces sympathetically, then draws his brows together with a little frown as he considers his own circumstances. In the past, when he'd blacked out, pain was certainly a factor. Or, more like, fucking endless psychological torment. Sometimes it was like he was drowning in it, but mostly, it was just a steady, persistent little drip wearing away at his sanity.

But it's been nearly 25 years since he'd last spaced out like that. Lost time. Wandered on autopilot. And he can't say he was hurting in any particular way in those last moments he can remember back home. He was just... strumming and singing a song of no particular significance. Sure, there was some bittersweet thread running though it-- there always is, when he plays-- but nothing, like, significant. Just your usual dull, old pain.

Jeff takes a sip of his water to stall saying anything real.

"Sorry." He offers a slight, sympathetic smile, his overall demeanor a bit more subdued now. "It does have a way of making everything go all, ah... fuzzy, doesn't it."

The Grisha seems to catche himself the moment that sympathetic smile turns to him. The Darkling's lips turn up into a half-smile, though only for a few seconds as he tears his gaze away from the fire. He dips his head into a small nod, and for a brief moment he seems apologetic.

"Quite," he says softly, and visibly pulls himself back together--his shoulders move back to how they'd been before, stiff and regal, back returning to his usual straight posture. He clears his throat. Enough thoughts of the tracker boy, enough dwelling on the girl who betrayed him, enough of the world sought him out to be the villain.

Time to tug on that thread he'd seen in the other, the little part that had been peaking out, just a little frayed.

"What had you been playing?"

Jeff watches the other man pull himself together, tucking away anything that might have been soft behind stiff composure, the same way Jeff hides behind a cheerful smile. Hey, who's he to judge?

He shrugs one shoulder, still smiling, "Nothing special. I was teaching myself the guitar solo in Nancy's Boys. You know, the Ally Shady song?"

Okay, so it's possible that Jeff still hasn't picked up on the fact that they're literally from two different worlds. He just assumed Kirigan has a very particular fashion sense.

But most people in his world know the band Ally Shady, if they know, like, rock. Jeff just happens to know the titular Ally on a way more personal level. Or he used to, anyway.

"I do not." The t at the end of the sentence is hit sharply, a staccato sound in quiet room where the only other noise is the crackling of a fire. It's not agressive--it's barely irritation, narrowing his eyes as he stares at the fire. Another sip of his drinks certainly help.

"Perhaps you should play it." If the other plays, maybe his nerves will calm--or maybe he'll think, and maybe that thread will present itself once more. Regardless, the Darkling can find some semblance of peace as the other becomes more and more at ease.

There's the chance this could backfire horribly, of course, and the other's skills are limited at best, but he's willing to take that chance.

He could play it. The truth is, he hadn't been teaching himself the guitar section of the song; he already knew it. The dude's riffs are so fucking basic, Jeff could play it right now, like it's nothing. He'd throw his spin on it, make it special, make it shine, the way he used to, up on stage with all eyes and ears on him, Ally behind him on the drums...

God, they made something incredible together.

The thought's enough to make his fingers freeze before he'd even come close to plucking a string. No, if he were to play a song for the other man, it'd be something without so much of the stain of his own experiences on it. A simple, straightforward cover of a song by an artist who's never even entered his orbit before.

Which is all fucking moot, because of one key, totally crucial detail.

"Find me an amp and I'll play something." Not that song, but something, sure. "But, ah... As it is?" He leans over to pluck one of the strings. There's sound, but it's definitely muted, doesn't have the same resonance a proper acoustic instrument would. "You won't really get the full effect."

He's being evasive, but, like, at least he's friendly about it.

Edited (GRAMMAR??) 2021-05-21 16:39 (UTC)

The Darkling's never seen a less subtle version of avoidance in his life. It earns the other a curious look, though he doesn't say anything right away. He's stuck, he thinks, with a very strange man. Most likely otkazat’sya, if first impressions are anything to go by.

There's also the fact that he doesn't know what an amp is, but he's quickly learning that half of what Jeff says is completely gibberish to him. Context is key in these sorts of situations, as much as he wants to grind his teeth together and clench his jaw in annoyance. His face is impossibly neutral.

"Your hands curl around it while you're talking. It clearly brings you comfort," he observes. Sure, it could be fidgeting, but the way the other plucks at the strings absently all but confirms things.

How dare you, Jeff's very subtle.

...okay, he isn't, but he doesn't need to get called out like that! Jeff seems to shift a little in discomfort at the other man's observations, benign as they seem to be. It's probably pretty easy to tell that Jeff's somebody who doesn't exactly like to be seen. Not like, physically; he's certainly not a wallflower. It's more like...

He has a mask that he's comfortable with.

"Well... Yeah, I mean." Jeff shrugs and offers (or forces) a relaxed smile. "I've been playing since I was old enough to hold a guitar. It's pretty much an extension of me." He finishes his water, and leans over to set the glass down, before shooting Kirigan a curious look. "You really want me to play something, dude?"

He's terribly easy to read if you know what to look for. They've only been conversing a short time, but Jeff is soft, he thinks. That's why it's so easy to see through. Perhaps Jeff's world is kinder to him--perhaps in his world there is not a constant war, not a constant threat looming over his country. Perhaps Jeff is from a place where everything is like the Grand Palace, filled with opulence and lavishness as their kind get fatter and laugh like they have no care in the world, like Fjerda isn't to the north, like Shu Han isn't to the south, like there is no constant threat. A world where internal politics are non existent. How simple it is to be a man without gifts, without power, without abilities.

It's infuriating. He's lucky he controls his face and keeps that passive look on it, lest he starts sneering.

"It calms you." The Darkling knocks back the rest of his moonshine, what little that had been left in his glass sliding down his throat, a pleasant burn spreading through him. That's a yes.

Jeff eyes him for a moment, debating whether or not he should argue the point. He doubts Kirigan meant anything by it, other than the simple observation, but it needles him all the same, having someone reduce music down to a security blanket.

It doesn't calm him. It's not, like, some hobby he picked up to manage his anxiety. Music is the special language he shares with the Gift. It's the gateway that connects him to something beautiful and boundless, something that threads through all of existence.

"That's not what it does," he murmurs as he picks up the guitar and settles it on his thigh. But he doesn't elaborate, doesn't bother to explain what the guitar really means to him, just puts a smile on his face and tries to will some good cheer into his fingers. That's all he needs. Fake it til the gloom passes.

"Okay. Here's a song."

Of course, whatever he gets to playing is totally unfamiliar to Kirigan, but maybe he'll enjoy some sick (albeit unplugged) riffs in the tune of Taylor Swift, anyway.

And you better believe Jeff is singing along, too.

"I stay out too late
Got nothing in my brain
That's what people say, mmm-mmm
That's what people say, mmm-mmm..."

But hey, at least he's actually got skill in both the singing and the guitar playing departments.

Another piece of information floating lightly in the air, and the Darkling is keenly aware of the others' non-answer. 'That's not what it does' speaks volumes, loud in its cacophony, all too easy to pick up. If not calm him, then what else does it do? Perhaps he clings to it because it's the only thing he has from home. Perhaps he holds it tightly like the Darkling does his kefta: it's armor, if not physical like his, than there's a strong chance it's metaphorical. Perhaps it's far more special than that.

Jeff sings and the Darkling listens, pleasantly surprised. His musical awareness is rudimentary at best, but the sincerity in the bard's voice is unwavering, genuine passion weaving seamlessly into every note. It's impressive, he thinks, though his knowledge comes from fetes and orchestras, far more accustomed to balalaikas than electric guitars.

The lyrics need a little more adjusting, but who's he to judge? By the time the other finishes, the Darkling's second glass of moonshine is completed. He even has the manners to clap, however softly and politely, as if attending the opera.

"You'd be a welcome addition to the Small Palace."

There's a strange feeling creeping up Jeff's spine as he continues his impromptu performance, some niggling sense of wrongness, even as the song comes easily to his voice and his fingers. Even when he isn't casting, even when there's no particular intent in his music, the very act of performing a song tends to invoke a sense of harmony with the Gift. Brings him in tune with it, puts him on the same frequency, brings about this sense of everything being in sync.

He doesn't feel it now. The Gift's still here, of course; it still exists, and nothing can stop that. But it's kind of... fuzzy. Muted. Just a little off, like he can't harmonize with it, no matter how much he puts into his singing, or his playing, and it's just.

Weird.

Wrong.

Unsettling.

The feeling lingers even as he finishes the song, and it's only the sound of polite clapping that brings him back. Jeff blinks a little, seeming to shake off the distraction, and looks at Kirigan with a smile, trying not to let any of that uneasiness show through.

Keep smiling. Fake it til it's real.

"Thanks!" His response is genuine, at least, even if he's a little on edge from his own performance. A beat, then: "I think? That's a good thing, right? I never heard of the Small Palace..."

There's something there, a shadow that falls over him, something the Darkling recognizes all too well. Something's troubling him, simmering in the surface. The Darkling could care less about how he feels after his little performance--he could care less about the performance in general, though that's no fault of Jeff's--and instead focuses on that.

It's not just nervousness, there's something else.

The Darkling hides a small smile.

"The Small Palace is where I reside. It's not as...quaint... as this." A glance over to the interior of the Grey Gull. Is he judging? Absolutely, and he's not bothering to hide it. He's no stranger to huts with no electircity, certainly not above slumming it in tents (although, being Grisha, the Second Army tents are far more luxurious), but this is different. He was put here, he didn't choose it.

Jeff looks at Kirigan, his brows furrowing in thought as a few disparate pieces of context clues start coming together, paired up with a hunch, and topped off with a budding seed of a theory... The man's clothes, the way he doesn't seem to get Jeff's super cool and totally relevant pop culture references, the fact that the Gift feels like it's partially blocked off by, like, some cling wrap keeping wherever they are separated from it...

Finally, the clouds of ignorance part, and a lightbulb starts to flicker to life.

What if-- and this is crazy, but hear him out-- what if they're not from the same reality?

"Oh," he says. Followed by, "Sorry, where's that?"

The Darkling's brows raise in mild surprise, but it's certainly not because of the groundbreaking thought the other has. He looks at the other, mouth opening to say something, and then visibly corrects himself and says something else entirely.

"Os Alta," he says smoothly. "The country of Ravka." Which, he can already tell, is completely foreign to the other just as much as the strange references and the unusual instrument is. He continues, mostly to watch his face. "Fjerda to the north, Shu-Han to the south." The Fold to the east, his own creation, a scar of darkness tearing his country in two.

Blink.

Blink blink blink.

Jeff really makes an attempt at keeping his face a cool and collected mask of neutral impassivity, even as every single name and geographical reference flies right over his head.

"Ahhh..."

And then he fails.

"I'm sorry, dude, I've got no idea where any of that is, and normally I'd chalk that up to the whole American ego thing, like, 'Oh wow, there's an entire world outside of the US? What a surprise!' but I'm pretty sure I wouldn't have forgotten four whole countries!" Or was it three? What's Os Alta? Is it a city? A continent? A planet? "Shit! There I go, arrogantly assuming you even know what America is! We really are the worst!"

Okay, so maybe he's having a bit of an existential meltdown right now. It's one thing to, like, speculate and theorize that they're from different worlds. It's another to have it... not confirmed, exactly, but not refuted, either. It's an idea that's beginning to become more and more of a reality.

"So either I'm in your world, or you're in mine-- which wouldn't make any sense, I mean, the Gift wouldn't feel so out of tune if we were home-- or! Third option! Neither of us are in our worlds, and this is some new fucked up layer of existence as we know it-- or not know it, I mean--"

Jeff just might just keep going if he isn't stopped.

Edited 2021-06-05 09:53 (UTC)

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

059-061 » the place where you stop the story

arrival

oh no he's adorable ;o;

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email tag was a bit borked so this MIGHT POST TWICE SORRY

two jeffs one inbox

cw addiction

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