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Entry tags:
- ! event log,
- a discovery of witches: kit marlowe,
- dc: harley quinn,
- detroit: become human: chloe,
- detroit: become human: connor,
- dragon age: anders,
- final fantasy: sephiroth,
- locked tomb: harrowhark nonagesimus,
- marvel: carter ghazikhanian,
- marvel: jennifer walters,
- marvel: loki odinson,
- marvel: wade wilson,
- my hero academia: takami keigo,
- oc: elenore evans,
- oc: saxsice king,
- penny dreadful: victor frankenstein,
- south park: kyle broflovski,
- uncharted: elena fisher,
- uncharted: nathan drake,
- uncharted: rafe adler,
- uncharted: samuel drake
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!
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.
no subject
How entirely ironic that he should wake up to an epic adventure the likes of which he's spent his life pulling apart at the fictional seams and be solely occupied with thoughts of home, just like every voyager doomed to look behind them, no matter what the inhuman ferryman has to say about looking forward. Stumbling from the vessel as if from a womb into a new world, he can only greet the fantastic with a fluttering feeling of lighthearted nausea that sinks into heavy-hearted dread.
Wariness, too. Wary not just that this unearthliness might be real, but that it might not be real... and that he might have left the parts of his mind that could tell the difference behind in that dank cell stained with his and Louisa's blood. At worst, he wonders if he ever left at all, and this is the trick of a broken mind while his body remains. There are worse ends to being lost between the lines of a story--far brutal, far bloodier ends.
Fitfully, the daemon spends the disembarkment toying with the band on his wrist, tracing and rubbing the edges, the smooth disc, orange flashing insidiously between his fingers. The city overlooking the harbor is a striking jewel, glinting in the distance like one of the Seven Cities of Gold, but it's the High Temple that whispers something beneath his skin, strumming a chord that rings in tune with the metal secured to his wrist.
The wordless tugging puts him on the path to the latter, and after a long and breathless time gazing up at the exterior--evocative of some beautifully wrought monument to the old faiths but of no clear composition he can put a finger on--he finally shifts. To the person nearest, he says, "Well, shall head in?"
As if they were invited and this is not every bit a step into the absurd.
— II. CITY
[He resists the first few days, skittishly keeping close to the High Temple and its sanctuary, losing hours to running fingers through his hair in solitary thought and only his most basic needs. But inevitably, Carcosa calls to him and anyone with an ounce of curiosity--a siren's song to explore the unknown and the strange and the marvellous.
For one thing, he can't wear a single robe forever. And for another... Kit can't deny, underneath weariness and a desire to put his head down and not lift it again, there's a spark of excitement blooming in the dark. A new world. He can languish any day, anywhere on Earth, but who can say they've passed through a door to somewhere entirely else?
He can't be the only Traveller with the idea to trek into the city limits, and he can't be the only one stop and gawk at the sights and sounds of the future distilled into glass-fronted buildings and motor cars gliding along paved streets. He might not even be the only one to think to seize upon an abandoned newspaper on an outdoor cafe table and blanch at the date at the top.]
— III. MASQUERADE
[He little likes the enchanted mask that affixes to his face with the suddenness of a dream, but he finds he likes the yellow pin even less. To his distaste, it brings to mind the Jews' yellow badges, worn in plain view--though in this case what the marker adorning his perfectly fitted black evening wear is exposing and to what extent, he's not yet sure.
(He's not sure of much. People can lose their hold on what's real and true in a dream half as substantial as this, a chill warning to keep in mind.)
Satisfied neither are coming off without the key to this magic, he tries to keep abreast of the rising tide of unease in him by playing the role, taking a seat at the bar with the other men and women in their suits and indecorously-draped dresses. To try and learn, to trace the mask's shape with his fingers until he understands it. To listen. To take whatever drink is on hand--a white lady, he's told--and swallow it down, welcoming its scald, and remind himself he can't afford to lose what wits he has left to blind panic.
Over the course of taking the room's measure, his attention falls on someone looking as though they're experiencing same struggles he had upon feeling the mask on his face. Another who's wandered into this honey trap, it seems, perhaps freshly arrived. Or else fed up with feeling at the mercy of magical mischief.]
You might find more use in a drink than in trying to pry that from your skin.
[He speaks lowly on approach. Call it pity; call it shared interest; either way, he pauses in his circling of the party to offer a light remark.]
III.
But her hand goes back to the mask, because while she is glad to have the covering to her face, the sequins ... ]
Hm? Oh, I intended to have one, yes. As soon as I could find water as opposed to whatever that bubbly alcohol is.
no subject
[Although boyish in frame, there's no mistaking he speaks to a young girl, not in that dress, resembling an elaborately tasseled night rail that shows more than it hides. To his eye, used to the voluminous skirts and figure-flattering bodices in popular fashion, he can understand how it might factor into her discomfiture.
As for the glittering adornments, they certainly do conceive an interesting visage of death, going a long way toward initially catching his eye. All the more so when the boyish-looking young girl turns her head and reveals the full effect to view. And her eyes--dark, dark as the mouth of a grave on the darkest night.
For the span of a second he meets them and sees into them and the power behind them chases the warmth of the room away with a crypt-chill.
Libitina herself, he thinks. And then: a glaem. And in the next second: that explains the mask.]
no subject
There's the tiniest little hint of a smile in Harrow's eyes for a second, almost as if she can see what he's seeing when their eyes meet, and then it blinks out, back to darkness eternal and utter lack of emotion. ]
Yes, it is an alcohol. The kind of chemical. [ Okay, so she also looks a little befuddled as to how someone could not know that -- where is he from that he doesn't know what an alcohol is? ]
no subject
People are still people at their base element. Sometimes exasperating.]
I'm sure you didn't mean the face powder.
[She has enough going on in that area.]
The other I would call the tonic for what troubles you. [He glances at the center of her chest, looking for the glaem again, but it's gone, chased from his otherworldly sight by the dazzling electric lights and back behind her ribs. Then his gaze cuts to his left--at a stool and the black jacket tossed over it, left behind by the wearer now on the dance floor, given over to one of the intriguingly disordered group dances.] Or perhaps this would be more to your liking.
[Taking the jacket, he offers it, holding it open to put on. Kindness, as a general rule, is not always a jacket that fits him well. But she's young yet, and he doubts she intended to arrive looking as she is any more than he had.]
no subject
Not showing as much skin, though, is much appreciated. She is not someone who would smile at a stranger, but she does step backward into the opened jacket, offering a mild-mannered but appreciative response. ]
Much more. Thank you.
no subject
And if it's missed? Well. Borrowing a jacket at a mysterious masquerade orchestrated around irremovable masks hardly comes close to balancing the scales.
Once it's settled around her shoulders, he steps back with a silent nod of acknowledgement.]
Though I daresay there's little to be done about the rest unless you care to bare something else, from what I gather.
[It's not just the glaring masks and pins dictating the theme of this costume party overflowing with oddly-dressed strangers, but the nature of the hints he's waded through and listened in on each time he's threaded the former two into conversation. Secret. The word of the night, it would seem.]
no subject
The rest?
[ She has forgotten. It takes a few seconds; she touches her face, clarity reigns again in her eyes. ]
Oh. This. This is—it depends on how long I would be stuck wearing it.
[ Harrow's only secrets are so terrible she can't burden anyone else with them, let alone want to continue to burden herself. She wants to be free of even thinking of it. ]
no subject
He's never gotten such a feeling from a witch before--at least not so acutely dark--but that manner of power usually belongs to witches, thus it's the best-fitting word he has for her.
If she is a witch, he's not above accepting the possibility that very same power may grant her unique insight.]
It's an enchantment of some kind. [The space he leaves after the statement is a query in and of itself, wordless, offering room for another's otherworldly opinion. In this there's no point to obstinacy; he must defer to experience outside his own, even if packages in such a young, frail form.] You feel it?
I. HIGH TEMPLE + A BIT OF WILDCARD
It is beautiful. It is alien. And she finds herself balking from it, moving towards something that feels familiar — though she's so deeply hesitant to trust that feeling. Even as she moves through the strange shadowed hallways of the High Temple and her spirit is appeased by the sensation that drapes over her so soft and warm (to her it smells and feels like earth, like grass beneath her fingertips, like lying in the cool Moorlands and listening to the spring bubbling nearby, and for a moment she feels the freedom she felt when she was a girl).... Maleficent is suspicious of it. Nothing that isn't home should feel like it. And Aurora is not here with her.
For everything else it may be, at its core this place is a prison.
The dark fey stalks barefoot down the halls, something that is both bird of prey and woman, great wings folded behind her. The feathertips that lightly brush the ground are soft and silent, but the clawtips housed at her wing joints are a razor-sharp contrast, a reminder that she is something deadly.
For a moment, she wants to conceal herself the way she's comfortable with, a sort of mask to cover her entire body: black fabrics down to the floor, hair wrapped up in a headpiece; she feels naked like this, in the simple robe, her long hair flowing freely. If she can find some more cloth in this place, she can use her magic to craft new clothing. She passes a large bath, breathing in the scent of soaps, then steps further down those ancient halls when she hears someone coming from behind her. She's been moving slowly; if someone were heading in the same direction, they certainly could be coming up behind her any moment. Canting her head, a sharp ear indeed picks up the footsteps rounding the corner just now—
The fey turns abruptly around, wings spreading outwards a bit, as though defensively. It's half instinct and half purposeful; she fights against the peaceful lull of this place, almost wants an excuse to rear up instead, to show her thorns. So she does, to the person who comes upon her, and her golden eyes flash. ]
it's a new month, you know what that means 😎 finally tagging last month
At times he fancies he can catch a whiff of lavender rising off the aged stones and for a beat he almost manages to forget. Then his heart thuds again as if in defiance of his laxness, and he remembers with the sudden inevitable wave of grief. Relief and bereavement, ebbing and flowing like the tide, much as wonder and disdain. He is a man of intellect and has no use for faith, and yet--and yet, true to his very contrary core, he can't help wandering the temple, drinking it in, reminded of the temple to the goddess outside Sept-Tours Matthew had once shown him.
Matthew. Don't think about him. If you think about him, you'll stop and you won't start again--
A wearh's keen hearing might have detected the brush of feathers and padding bare feet; a witch's second sight might have seen the blaze of green-gold magic lighting up the corridors. But he is neither, and has neither to such honed degrees, and his attention isn't even on what lay ahead but on everything else: window views, and open doorways, and the floor under his feet (they yearn for better shoes after the trek here).
He sees the shadow she casts first, the vaguest impression of a human figure that goes awry and misshapen around the shoulders and the crown of the head--
And then he looks up at the source and sees her, horn and arched wings and eyes a-glow. His own eyes round to show their whites. His lips part. But once again, he finds himself undecided what emotion he should scream with, should such a forceful response find the energy to make the climb from his throat. Surprise? Fear? Amazement? In the end, nothing comes. He'd spent all his screams on Matthew.
He'd also thought he was coming near to spending all his awe for one day--but the she-bird proves him wrong in that, too.]
Hell yeah babey, Team Slug!! ✊🐌
She lived so many years being something feared. Her name has had the effect almost of something like magic itself — whispered in quiet dread, as though afraid she could be summoned if the word were voiced too loudly. Like a curse, Maleficent has been a source of terror for so many, for so long.
....There's something to her that wants to see it, even if only for a glimpse. It's familiar. It's a small way to rebel against the peace this place is trying to force on her, yet another sensation that she didn't choose to feel, but a byproduct of the ancients at work here. She's restless, so restless, up beneath that cool white exterior.
And there it is. As she rears up like that, the person on the other end of the sudden meeting shirks from her. She sees it; she knows it well. Eyes so round and mouth so stunned into silence, the way a human face looks when it's trying to perceive her, make sense of her. And it's a man — even better. Maleficent lets her eyes flash at him, golden... green... somehow not either, but simultaneously both. Her blood mouth tightens, the red of it a stark contrast to the paleness of her sharp features. All of her is angular, harsh. If she meant him no harm, here is where she should say as much, but the dark fey lets him think she could, for those few moments.
Finally, she speaks: voice a woman's, but one without human softness. ]
It is unwise to sneak around. One could too easily happen across a waiting viper.
[ ...Sneaking around is literally what she was doing, but Maleficent is nothing if not completely unconcerned with being fair. ]
😎👉👉
It had taken the span of one slow smile to understand on a primal level his life was a gift Matthew would be giving him every second of every day after.
And how he had loved him for it. Sensual fatality in someone so beautiful and terrible had claimed his heart and his breath, and hadn't given either back.
She brings him back to that moment in an instant. The memory douses him. He relives it all down to every goosebump in the span of a second, enough time to stand struck and think god, she reminds him a bit where that line between beastliness and grace divides and where it overlaps. Enough time for his heart to flutter with a nostalgic kind of reverence before it remembers the break, and better times before the well of Matthew's mercy ran dry. Before she speaks and he catches his breath behind his teeth.]
True enough, lady. [And he's the most remarkable person I'll ever know.] Far be it for me to think I can avoid the bite, whatever the case.
[His mouth is dry from the sea voyage and the walk, and now the unparalleled sight of a lifetime; it adds a sandpapery rasp to a rough and breathy response.
She's cold, too, this one--but more in the way of fire and marble than ice and rage. A living creature, her crimson lips and sharp femininity so like Louisa's, but flushed from within by power that nudges against him, wanting to be known and witnessed. His rapt gaze traverses from point to point, tracing the massive wings that occupy the corridor. Drinking her in.]
Marvellous.