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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
[Sobering from the shock of what he would've described, just days ago, as being as likely as an angel dropping down from heaven's embrace and shitting on his head, it behooves him to reconsider the impossible.
Yes, what bitter irony; he can near taste what the other swallows in choking mouthfuls. Despite not recognizing the primary details, or the image of daemons with influence to rival magic reflected back upon him, he recognizes the rest: the bloody brutality of otherwordly conflicts.]
I can only speak for what I know, and we do call them superstitions, stories spread and embellished by people who assign abilities to those who don't have them, or else very little. I know as many daemons died at the hands of Templar knights as witches and humans on the wrong side of history. I know I do not have the power to affect a witch.
[He bows his head, as small an act of apology as he imagines would be desired coming from someone who's written and profited off of and derided the lived reality of the other.
As much as it seems their kind are destined not to mix well in any place, he can have sympathy for the ring of suffering in the witch's voice.]
I also now know there are worlds upon worlds beyond my reckoning, and what I do not know, I cannot speak for.
no subject
Anders doesn't really relax, but some of the edginess eases out of his demeanor. He doesn't understand - not anymore than he appears to be being understood. But the lack of an argument or even more derisive laughter assuages some of his offense. ]
Well you're right about that.
[ Though the same could just as easily be said of him. But Anders isn't feeling particularly self-reflective, at present. ]
Why call yourself a demon at all, then, if you bear no resemblance to one? It seems counterproductive, at the very least. Especially if you prefer not to be slain by an errant Templar. Or anyone else with a taste for self-preservation.
no subject
He'll pay the price for it--and soon. Her final words for him still lodge in his chest like a ball of ice, chilling his blood right down to his core. Deeper still he knows he doesn't have any right to try and dislodge it.
Self-preservation. He's silent until that point when another mirthless half-smile threatens to tilt his lips. However, it's shorter-lived than the last, his earlier laughter burnt out with no spark to reignite it.]
I don't resemble them. They resemble me.
[And yet he gestures along the side of his face, as if contrasting his words with the very reality of his mask.]
To the ancients, daimonoi were intermediaries between man and deity. Now we're tormentors of the innocent and the faithful. In another thousand years, it'll mean something different.
But in most company I call myself Christopher Marlowe and leave the rest to the imagination.
[If the witch doesn't care for labels and silly titles, they'll have to resort to names.]
no subject
And he had been managing to scrape some sort of enjoyment out of this dreary party. That alone is enough to maintain his mild yet persistent ire. ]
'Tormentors of the innocent and the faithful'? I think I heard a Chanter shout that about mages, once.
[ Or maybe it was just in the Chant. Anders might have a propensity to get a bit preachy, himself, but he's never been devout enough to actually pay attention during sermons. ]
You can call me Anders. Though if you're always going to be so sour about it, I pray you won't often.
no subject
[And among cultures, it would seem--along with the same rampant hypocrisies. There's no gain in taking a swipe at the request and all it contains of the latter; he merely acquiesces by putting a hand to his chest and, wordlessly and wryly, inclining his head in a more overt bow the second time around. As you say.
Now that the witch understands--and by all accounts, agrees with--why he'd kept his distance, he doubts they'll have much contact worth worrying about. He tamps down on the many questions he wants to ask, save for the most pressing.]
Perhaps this Ancient will see fit to answer them. As for my interest in you, I was wondering how you and your magic were faring with this enchantment.
no subject
He scoffs, shaking his head as he turns his gaze to the crowd again. Perhaps forlornly eyes another tray of that obnoxious, fizzy drink. If he just bolted now, he could probably catch it. ]
I'm not a creature, first of all. I'm a human being.
[ He's pretty sure he deserves that much, whatever obscure facet of his existence has so offended his present company. ]
And I hardly think my magic is any business of yours.
Do you often ask probing personal questions after insulting and belittling someone? Because it's usually better done with at least a modicum of charm.
no subject
[Behind his mask, blank incomprehension reigns. What contention is there to take in what they are, creatures, those that live among humans but stand a fraction apart? He hadn't been tearing the other down; he'd been drawing a bridge between them.]
The only one here who seems determined to insult you is you. And myself. Your own people. All three of the creatures.
[Thunderstruck disbelief returns with twice the vengeance, loaning him animation where'd been a pointed lack of it before. Sitting up straight, his posture lights up with the incredulity of the downright extraordinary. He finds himself leaning forward, scarcely daring to consider adding this, too, to the list of impossibilities this one interaction has managed to birth.]
My god, do you come from a place where you believe yourself to be human?
[The very thought! Now the witch's sulky sourness begins to make sense in its totality. To one, a common enemy in human imagination is almost a point of camaraderie. To the other, an egregious mockery. Unable to hold back a surprised smile, he leans closer still as if departing some conspiratorial wisdom--or more to the point, the extended history lesson required to shed light on this backward back-and-forth.]
To call a witch human would be the gravest of injuries--I might as well offer my hand to their face and be done with it. They take great pride in being anything but. Have you felt I've been quite unmannerly naming you a part of the world of creatures? [He chuckles softly, genuinely touched by amusement.] I was paying you the due respect, you silly fool--there's your insult. Unless they do not yet know they belong to it, no witch, daemon, or wearh I know would suffer being mistaken for human among one another.
How strange you are. [Musing.] It's as if our histories face each other in a warped mirror.
no subject
Oh, please. You wouldn't know respect if it were a furry little creature that jumped up and bit you on the ass. You know, I listened to you when you said you weren't a demon-demon. You could at least do me the same courtesy.
[ His humor is less strained as he settles into what feels like the most nostalgic dynamic in the world, now. Being talked down to is such a second nature to him, after all his wasted years in the Circle. These days, he's more used to it coming from the nobles who pass through Vigil's Keep, all wanting something or conspiring some way. And always the errant Templar on the road, of course.
His surprise has faded, now, and he regards the other man with the cheerfully bland contempt he's more or less perfected, as it always pertains to someone who wants to speak to him as if he's the one not listening. ]
I know who I am and I know what I am. A mage - as I've been trying to tell you? Not a witch, not a creature, not a monster.
I'm as human as an elf is still an elf, or a qunari is still a qunari, when they just happen to be born with magic. No one owes us respect for that any more than they would someone born with green eyes or freckles or a perfect nose and chiseled jaw. Most of us just want to be treated like we're anything better than the Chantry's property.
no subject
He can see the wound for what it is now, and how sore. He had thought it strange to be likened to Christendom's devils on one end and humankind on the other, but it would be odious indeed to desire humanity while being halfway severed from it already by the very nature of one's magehood, just to be threatened with a complete split with a call to the otherworldly.]
Then please forgive a creature his ignorance. I've never heard the like before and mistook a common ground we don't share. No discourtesy intended.
[Warped and inside out and fascinatingly incongruous. And still, the apologetic admission is sincere, for what little it matters; he had not imagined it possible, this. All of this, right down to so inverting one's sense of self.]
no subject
[ Some discourtesy had certainly seemed intended, amidst all that backhanded frippery. Anders did not in the least get the impression, here, that he was in any way a welcome presence - before or after the necessary clarifications began.
But he shrugs his way back toward the throng of the party, thinking of fresh air on a balcony and more of that bland, fizzy liquor again with longing. ]
In any case, my evening's not spent, yet, and I'd rather make something more pleasant of it while I still can.
no subject
No one can say Kit hadn't tried this time.]
You'll believe as you like, I'm sure. Good luck.