polylogs | Destination: Carcosa

Destination: Carcosa

✖ Carcosa

Ⅰ. THE TEMPLE
You can read all about your character's arrival in the game lore.
The island's harbour is full of other ships, although not a single one of them seems to actually have a human being aboard. (You could certainly try to steal one, but doing so is an exercise in futility - you will find that even if you set off into the ocean you will wind up right back in the harbour again after spending a few hours lost in the fog.) Beyond the harbour is a glittering city of glass and gold. Curving arches and sharp geometric lines are the hallmarks of the architecture - an art deco paradise that whispers of decadence and hope for the future.

The people who crowd the streets wear suits and hats, drop-waist dresses and furs. Their faces are all blank smiles. It's the roaring twenties, darling, why do you look so concerned?

If it is your first experience of the Endless Isles, you have access to the High Temple. Should you wish, you may also seek out the island's own temple as well, which is located inside the city, in a district mostly forgotten by the residents. Don’t worry - your feet will carry you there.

The building is not large, and it is old and neglected. It has a domed ceiling, with panels of glass crisscrossed with metal painted gold curving upward. Whatever fine pattern may have formed there is lost to time; the glass at the centerpoint of the dome is gone, letting in the smell of the sea.

There are rooms equipped with beds spreading out like a spiderweb from the middle of the building. The temple proper is of course in the exact center, below the broken dome. In the middle of this circular room you will find dead branches gathered together to make a vaguely humanoid shape. This crude figure has been haphazardly painted yellow. A slab of concrete sits in front of it. There is not much to explore here; it is very quiet.

Either temple is a good place to simply rest, or meet some of your fellow Travelers. The High Temple of course has the Temple Chef and its usual Guardians, Flock, and Lantern.

The Island Temple has its own Guardians, which are small, pale humanoids with perfectly blank faces and small antlers like young deer. They will leave you alone unless you try to meddle with the central room. Doing so will result in one of them approaching you, and you will find yourself falling unconscious on the floor.

Ⅱ. THE MASQUERADE
Through happenstance, you find yourself in an enormous ballroom. Low couches are dotted everywhere, and a live band plays somewhere at the end of the massive space. A long bar takes up one side of the room, bottles sparkling under the light cast from the many cut-glass chandeliers hanging overhead. Champagne flows freely, and the scent of gin pervades the air.

All of the attendees are wearing masks.

You're dressed for the occasion, of course - you will find yourself wearing something reminiscent of 1920s America, with a small yellow sigil of some sort pinned to your breast. Ask any of the guests about it and they will tell you, "ah, it's a secret." You too, of course, are wearing a mask. You did not pick this mask, but if you look in the mirror hung over the bar you will find that it nonetheless hints at some aspect of your personality.

Which would be all well and good, except that you can't take the bloody thing off.

Moving around the ballroom, you will discover that a few other people also have the yellow sigil pinned to their clothing. It probably shouldn't surprise you that these people are all other Travelers, equally unable to take their mask off.

No, you can't unmask until you share something with your new-found friend: a secret. A REAL one, the sort you'd never speak aloud.

Of course, you can choose not to share. If you choose that route, however, you'll find that the mask is fusing with your skin. Leave it on past midnight when the cries of "UNMASK! UNMASK!" begin, and it will simply become your new face for the duration of the month.

Ⅲ. THE PLAY
Maybe parties aren't your style. No fear, there's plenty more to do and see in such a wondrous city. There's a theatre - the Meliora Grand as a matter of fact - and perhaps you're just the sort of person who would like to take in the arts.

The theatre has plush seats, and fabulous electric sconces lining the wall. Once you take your seat you'll find yourself looking at the stage, where a blood-red velvet curtain hangs. The theatre doesn't seem to fill up - indeed, it really seems that there's only you and one or two other people there. Curious.

The lights go down and the curtain is drawn open, revealing... well. Not much.

There are two chairs on the stage, a table between them. On the table lays a pallid face: a mask. Just a mask. Why not go on up and take a closer look?

Should you choose to touch the mask, you will feel a deep urge to speak to whoever else is in the theatre. You will, in fact, feel the desire to act out some sort of emotional trauma with them. Perhaps they suddenly look like your mother, your father, a lover who left you. Why don't you tell them how you really feel?

Naturally, you can both just sit in awkward silence instead. You'll be waiting until the morning to be let out, if that's the case.

Ⅳ. LOST CARCOSA
CW: the undead.
You find yourself walking along the beach at night. Along the shore the cloud-waves break, and black stars rise above you.

You can't quite pinpoint when you realise you are no longer alone. Maybe there is only one other person on the beach with you, or perhaps a few; you move as one down the expanse of sand until you realise there is something laying up ahead of you.

There is a heap of yellow cloth there, dry and tattered with age. It smells faintly of spices. Nestled among it is a jewel-encrusted human skull. Its empty sockets compel you to sit down in the cool, bone-white sand, to sit and speak to those around you about loss.

Everyone has lost something important to them. A person, a thing, a place, an aspect of the self. Something that's gone and you're never getting back. The skull grins endlessly, endlessly, encouraging you to speak about something you may not have laid to rest.

You can resist this compulsion. Maybe you were never good at sharing. Refuse the skull's silent request and you may continue down along the beach, or perhaps head back the way you came. As you walk, however, you will notice that there is a fog rolling in. It comes in off the sea/sky, obscuring the beach until you can barely see.

It's a terribly handy cover for the corpses that are shambling out of the surf. Wet, bloated, with eyes that glow a dim gold, they head for you silently. They wish to drag you back with them, into the depths. Better hope you can outrun or outfight them.

Bonus: What's that? You want a Carcosa playlist? You've got it, babes!

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"You nearly killed YOURSELF you fucking idiot!" Kyle yells. In the same breath he pulls Quentin to him, hugging him and feeling for wounds. But he holds him at arm's length the very next moment, scowling.

"Dude," he says seriously. "There was nobody here. You were screaming at the air when I came in. I thought you were having a psychotic episode. When you saw me you started yelling at me instead. I tried to talk you down, but..."

Kyle exhales shakily. "It didn't work. Dude, I'm so sorry. You're really okay, right?"

"Nearly? Well, that's not going to fucking DO IT," he gripes and lets himself drop back to the floor with an exhausted thump as soon as Kyle lets him go. Not that that hug went unnoticed...

"Ugh, it's like deja vu and a hangover got into a bar fight," he mumbles rubbing his eyes with the heels of his palms in a feeble attempt to clear his head. "I didn't know it was you ok? I thought I was some place else. I thought you were someone else. Forget it. I'm fine. No fiery cosmic birds or shadowy horsemen showed up while I was out right? Then it's all just fucking fine."

Kyle gives great hugs. Years of practice.

"Yeah, I gathered," Kyle says dryly. "Apparently someone who looks like Guy Fieri." He laughs a little. "Which, okay, makes freaking out slightly more understandable."

He gives Quentin a look that clearly telegraphs the fact that he isn't entirely convinced that he's not just babbling nonsense again.

"No, nothing like that. ...cute outfit."

"Yeah, you're looking at him," he grumbles bitterly. He drops his face into his hands and winces at that. God why does every future iteration of him look like some Gen Xer still clinging to their youth?

He heaves a sigh of relief that nothing was actually relived no matter how real the moment felt, but just quietly he's back to his charmingly defensive self. "Shut up! Same to you! Not like I picked anything in this low-rent Baz Luhrmann wet dream!"

Kyle guffaws, unable to help himself. The mental image is just too choice.

Kyle holds up his hands, still snickering a little. "Whoa, settle down, dude, I was being serious! It's a lot better than the robes we had before." Kyle's actually pretty pleased with the suit he got, although whatever pomade was used to slick hus hair down gave up the ghost ages ago.

"I think it looks kinda cool. Quinton, was it?"

That laugh earns him a little glower, but if it loses some of it's potency it's only because listening to Kyle's laugh get away from him like that feels like there's plenty he could clapback about if he had to.

And apparently he doesn't have to. Or at least not as viciously as is his reflex. "It's a little fucking ivy league for my taste," he grumbles and peels himself off the stage floor.

"Quentin. Or Quire. Whichever you want." The lingering dizziness is unexpected and leaves him grabbing for the table and catching sight again of the last thing he touched before he lost himself. That mask. "Hey, don't touch that thing. I think that's what tried to break my brain," he warns.

"Quentin Quire. Got it." Kyle starts forward when Quentin staggers,but stops short of grabbing his elbow to steady him.

"The mask?" He studies it, making no move to touch it, frowning lightly.

"Not going to lie, dude, part of me wants to poke it in the spirit of scientific curiosity. But also not real keen on a broken brain."

Instead he gestures at the audience. "Did you wanna sit down? Whatever you did to yourself was pretty intense. I could probably find you some water or something." A little more carefully he adds, "How did you do that, anyway? It looked like you just made a knife out of nothing."

"If you do I'm getting my phone out and putting the whole thing on YouTube," he warns. It seems a good discouragement if Kyle needed one, but Quire's clearly forgotten that he doesn't have a phone at the moment.

"I'm fine!" he insists. God forbid someone think he's not completely in-control. The only person he's come across close to his own age no less. But as always his bark is a lot more intense than his bite. Even after his insistence he shuffles towards the edge of the stage like someone who can't quite stop the room from spinning. "Was it pink?" he asks knowingly. "I'm a psionic," he says before pulling a face and wriggling his fingers demonically. "Spoooooky brain powers."

Don't worry, Quentin, Kyle will point it out for you. "You don't have a phone, genius."

Kyle keeps close as the other man walks, because like hell is he about to let the guy pitch over the side and crack his head open. At Quentin's explanation he frowns, not because it's upsetting but because of his tone.

"Okay, one: I know what psionics are, I read science fiction, and I know about crap like MK Ultra and Project Stargate or whatever. Two: does that make you a mutant? My friend Carter is a mutant, he has spooky brain powers too."

You're not his first telepath, Quire. Oh the horror.

"I'm Kyle, by the way. Not that you asked."

"Gaaawwd this place suuuucks," he groans dramatically.

"Thanks for the dork credentials, Pointdexter." As miserable as he is, there's a smile on his face now. The slightest most antagonistic little smirk when he looks at Kyle with something different than his usual condescension. It's curiosity breaking through his insistence that he's too cool to care about anything. Curiosity for this lanky redhead who thinks Project Stargate and having a mutant friend is something worth bragging about.

"Not like mine," he decides. Because it's a competition. "Well, Kyle. It's good to know you're not completely sheltered. Maybe there's hope for you yet. But I'm not just some mutant. I'm an omega level mutant. I'm the kind they scaremonger people with in the papers." And then this little tirade turns on no one in particular. "And frankly, I'm pretty fucking TIRED of places like THIS, run by CREEPS, trying to turn me into some kind of exotic PET!"

"I dunno, the architecture and stuff is kinda cool." Kyle actually thinks it sucks, too, but he can't help himself. There's just something about this guy that makes him want to be contrary.

"Fuck you, Pinky." Kyle lowers himself off the stage with ease due to his height.

"Might be like yours," Kyle says. "You don't know that. He said he's had it since he was little." Kyle's not entirely sure what the hell an omega level mutant is, but he can guess.

He looks around the empty theatre. Whatever else, it is beautiful. "It's not just about you, though," he muses. "I mean, one hundred percent, whatever is running this is a fuckin weirdo creep. But it's not like you're the only one who was dragged here. And like... okay, maybe you and Carter have these superpowers. But other people don't. I know a girl who is just really smart, but she can't shoot lasers out of her eyes or something. And - I swear this is true - I saw Ryan Reynolds. I think he's lost his fucking mind, but he's just an actor."

He gestures to himself. "I'm just a student. Pretty poor choice for an exotic pet."

"Now, now, let's not make this about hair colour. We know who's winning that one," he smirks.

"I bet I do. Mutants like me are one in a million." He's heard that a lot. That it's not all about him. But so long as he's wrapped up in something he didn't sign up for Quentin's approaches everything with the intention of figuring out what his place here is specifically.

"Why? Because you're boring? There's a reason most people have cats and dogs and hamsters and not like hyenas and Siberian tigers. Sure one's boring but it's a lot easier to keep in captivity. Maybe you're like those friendly labs they stick in big cat enclosures at the zoo to keep them docile and occupied."

Shit. He's right. Not for the first or last time in his life, Kyle curses his hair.

"Maybe there's two in a million," he counters without much hope.

Kyle bristles before realising he literally just called himself boring. He can't get mad at the guy for just repeating what he himself implied. Fuck.

"Yeah, seems to be working," he grumbles instead. "Are you always such an insufferable prick or is it just a side effect of nearly offing yourself?"

The prickle that rolls through Kyle at that is so palpable Quentin can feel it without even looking into him. He files that away to remember later.

Plunking himself down defeatedly into one of the auditorium seats Quentin sprawls out on the seat at the end of the row like he owns the place. Because apart from his apparent captivity he can't think of a reason not to act like he does.

"For you too. How many of those zoo dogs do you think get eaten if they don't make nice with the exhibits?" he smirks and being called an insufferable prick doesn't do anything to wipe the smile off his face. He clearly revels in being thought of as an asshole. "Maybe I'm a prick. Maybe the truth sans sugar coating is just an acquired taste."

If Quentin Quire was looking for someone to get negative attention from, he's hit the fucking jackpot in Kyle Broflovski. The guys is wired to not only react strongly, but to subconsciously seek out exactly the sort of person whose ego makes them a danger to themselves and others.

Kyle sits across the aisle because like HELL is he stepping over the guy. Besides which, he actually wants to sit comfortably and he needs the aisle to do so.

He gives Quentin A Look as he stretches his long legs out. "I have absolutely no problem with the truth," he says. "I prefer it. I'm just not entirely convinced that your biases aren't entirely fucked."

As far as Quentin's concerned, any attention is good attention and watching Kyle give it to him by the handful just because he's brazen is maybe the easiest get he's stumbled into in a while. So maybe there's an upside to being lumped into this would-be prison with a bunch of people who don't know him.

"Ugh, just because someone disagrees with you doesn't make them biased. I could literally look at the world through your eyes and reach the same conclusions. Just what kind of objectivity is going to do it for you?"

"I am aware of the fact that just because we disagree does not make me right," he says coolly. "I'm just SAYING the same is true for you."

He stretches his feet inside his shoes. "And you're not gonna look through my anything, dude."

He sighs and tips his head back. "Where are you from?"

"No shit, Nancy Drew. But one of us has about 7.674 billion sources to draw from on this planet alone. Whereas the other can't step out of his own head. So do you think maybe that kind of data might get one a LITTLE closer to some objective median reality that we could call 'THE TRUTH.'" Finger quotes and everything from the angry little Carl Sagan fanboy.

"Oh yeah? What are you gonna do about it if I wanted to?"

"Krakoa," he says. There's probably some stops he should have included in there, but fuck it. He's left those behind now. "You?"

"I can step out of my own head! It just requires a little bit more effort. Which I don't mind." He folds his arms across his chest. "We can never achieve perfect objectivity and you know it."

Kyle glares at Quentin for a while. Eventually he says, "I don't think I could stop you. I don't have superpowers. But you sure as hell don't look like you can throw a punch. So if you ever take over my body without my permission? I promise you this: I will smash your fuckin' teeth in."

Kyle frowns, clearly never having heard of it before. "Where's that? Oh. Uhm. South Park, Colorado."

"Who's claiming perfection? I specifically said one of us has the capacity to get closer to some real objectivity and if you think that one of us is YOU then congratulations!" he throws up his arms. The theatre really is a fitting place for all Quentin's dramatics. "You've got all the unearned hubris that carried human beings to where they are today."

"Oh no! Raggedy Andy thinks I can't swing my fists around like some knuckle dragging primate!" He smiles devilishly and narrows his eyes. Boy, he likes knowing he might not be so many steps from making this guy want to man handle him. "That shit. Is for sapiens."

"In the Pacific. It moves around a bit," he says. "It's new."

"Oh, that's rich, a lecture on unearned hubris coming from a guy who not five minutes ago was going on about how nobody else on the planet could top his brain powers." Kyle rolls his eyes, nearly as overdramatic as Quentin himself.

"Keep pushing, asshole," he grits out from between his teeth. "'Cause you and I both know that if you're saying you're above it? It means you absolutely SUCK in a fight." These threats are comical coming from somebody with Kyle's build - he's more of a stork than a gorilla.

But as angry as he is, he can't stop his natural curiosity. "A moving island?" he asks. "That's actually pretty awesome."

"Once again. Just because it makes you mad doesn't mean it's not a fact," he signs and lets his head loll back over the edge of the seat. "Hey do you think that bar is still doling out gin or whatever?" Quentin too snaps between argumentative and distracted fast enough to give someone whiplash.

Of course he pushes it. He's physical incapable of not pushing it. "Actttttually, it means I'm so far above it wouldn't even be considered a fight so much as a murder," he snorts. "I thought you said you know how psionics work?"

"It's not just moving. It's sentient. It's a living thing. We've hung out. It's pretty chill."

Kyle is seething. It's nearly palpable to normies.

"Yeah, probably," Kyle says. "Possibly made in a bathtub and liable to make us go blind, but yeah. You wanna check it out"

And just like that he's back fo simmering rage. "Actually, unless I'm mistaken, in order to avoid me kicking your ass you had better hope you think fast enough to stop me before my body moves. And I'm not sure you are."

Kyle gets up and stretches. "C'mon, let's try the bar. You can tell me about living on a sentient island over cocktails."

Open bar or no, Quire's pretty sure he could get drunk on that.

"Yeah I do. I had one before I came in here," he looks around a little aimlessly. "But I don't where it's been since I went all Shakespearean soliloquy and frankly I would't trust someone not to have spiked it by now. Some real fucking rabble came through that temple earlier..."

Picking himself up he smirks at Kyle. "Ten million brilliant thoughts per second. If I get so much as a whiff of your motor neurons firing up with hostility..." he snaps his fingers next to his head and a crackle of the pink energy that sword was made of envelopes him. "You better hope there's a first aid kit full of finger splints in that sack of crap they're handing out at the temple." It's all well and good, but at the end of the day it does depend on one thing— whether or not he's paying any fucking attention.

"Kay," he gets a couple of steps and then stops to look at Kyle over the edge of his glasses. "But if you get me drunk just to take a swing at me I'm gonna turn your brain into a funnel cake."

The horrible part is that deep down Kyle really doesn't mind getting so worked up. Life is much simpler when he's angry.

Kyle snorts. Rabble. Nobody says rabble unless they're LARPing as a medieval king. And Shakespearean soliloquy? Kyle is beginning to suspect that underneath his I'm-too-cool-for-your-mainstream-culture haircut and irritating confidence this guy might be a nerd.

Kyle watches that pink energy crackle with some surprise, because it really is something he doesn't see every day, but it's also a far cry from the weirdest thing he's ever seen. At Quentin's threat he bares his teeth in a smile as genuinely happy as it is savage. "Guess we'll see which one of us needs medical attention first," he says.

He stops when Quentin does and rolls his eyes. "That wouldn't be fair," he says, as if trying to take on someone with superpowers could possibly be considered an evenly matched fight in any way. "I just wanna try something era appropriate. It's not like I regularly get to trip through time. And it's not like I'm gonna get hammered, jeez." Not much of a drinker, this one.

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