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Rhodos Mods ([personal profile] rhodosmods) wrote in [community profile] rhodos_meme2022-08-10 10:12 am
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TDM #1

TDM #1: AUGUST
I. ARRIVAL
Upon arrival, characters awaken in one of the main plazas of the town, lying on the paving stones around a central fountain. It is a bright sunny day and very hot, so you'll quickly want to find some shade. A light breeze brings the scent of the sea, but there are no cries of sea birds to be heard.

The buildings of the plaza are all medieval stone construction, but they all have modern awnings and glass fronts. Tables out front display tourist wares: little plastic statuettes, postcards, t-shirts. Among these, it's easy to identify Greek lettering, Greek gods, photos of Athens and Crete. Predominant among the souvenirs are items marked with the name Rhodos.

But there are no vendors selling their wares. Even if characters wander into the shops, they are all empty as if their owners just stepped away for a moment. Lights are on, and some of the larger and nicer shops even have the whirr of air conditioning. Food stands waft the aroma of freshly grilled kebabs, and a gelato cart is cold to the touch and the ice cream inside is frosty and delicious.

The plaza where you arrive is set on a slope, and the direction of the sea breeze and the faint sound of waves against a shore indicates pretty strongly that down-slope is the direction of the sea. But looking down the slope from the main plaza, you can see an open archway in a tall stone wall, and beyond it is nothing but mist. Despite the clear sunny day in the plaza, the mist is a dense fog with barely three feet of visibility. If you enter it, you can see your own arms in front of you, but nothing beyond that. The breeze has gone still and the waves no longer sound so much like waves--the sound is warped through the mist so that it almost sounds like sobbing. After about five minutes of determined walking across what feels like flat ground with no other landmarks, you find yourself back at the archway.

Housing can easily be scavenged. Doors are unlocked and the interiors are clean and welcoming, beds freshly made, as if it is a hotel that's been prepared for you rather than anyone's personal residence. And yet, once you've settled upon a place to live, you start to find little signs that you have lived here all along. The photographs on the wall (which weren't there when you first arrived) depict you and your family and friends, even if you came from a world without photography. Upon arrival, you have only the clothing you are wearing, but within a day the closet begins to fill with familiar outfits from home, and within the first week you may find up to five of your own possessions around your new residence.

Note: Wardrobe is limited to what you can reasonably fit inside a non-walk-in apartment closet, what your character would reasonably wear and possess in canon, or what can be scavenged around town. There are two very small clothing boutiques where you can find most basics and a few cute outfits. For starting possessions two may be weapons or magical items, but you may have an additional three mundane items. All other personal items can only be obtained through regains or events.
II. SOUND AND LIGHT
The first few days in your new home are relatively uneventful. The days are hot and sunny and the nights are warm beneath a dazzling starry sky.

After not quite a week, the noises of a spectacle will lead characters to a small gate in one of the outer walls with steps leading down into the outer moat. The fog surrounding the city walls has drawn back for just this one little area, revealing an open air theater butting up against the castle wall. A path leads away from the theater on either side, but if you walk into the mist on either side you will promptly find yourself walking out of the mist on the opposite side, as if you'd circumnavigated the entire moat in just a few steps. Behind the theater is another high stone wall. Centuries of weathering has added rough footholds and handholds, but it would be a dangerous climb without equipment. Trees grow from the top of the wall, sticking limbs out of the wall of mist and clawing roots into the stones at the top, loosening them so that they're ready to slip at a touch.

The play that is projected onto the wall features shadow puppets, colored lights, and canned soundtrack special effects like the clop of horses hooves or the burst of trumpets. There is no dialogue or narration, so the story can only be roughly pieced together: there is a king and a queen, then a betrayal that leads to the king's murder. Later, the king and the queen appear again, participating in a ritual which seems to involve human sacrifice, a war and a triumphal procession, and then another betrayal and the king is murdered again.

The story repeats three times every night before shutting itself off. The first performance starts at twilight, and each repetition lasts about twenty minutes. Characters who watch it repeatedly will get the sense that it's slightly different each time, but the whole thing is complicated and confusing without any narration or dialogue to provide context, so characters will struggle to pin down how it's different. A slide projector is set up at the top of the amphitheater, with a pair of old speakers on either side of it. If slides are removed from the projector, they show only blank, uncolored plastic. If something is placed in front of the projector light, the scene is projected onto that object. The projector can be turned off, unplugged, or smashed. No matter what is done to it, as soon as no one is actively watching it, it is restored to an undamaged status and resumes playing.

After watching an entire repetition of the performance, some characters may be overcome by a fit of weeping. Tears roll down your cheeks and you can't seem to catch your breath. Despair clutches at your heart, colored by your own personal sorrows, and the weeping can only be stopped by receiving an embrace.

Others may find that the performance inspires them to reminisce. No matter how secretive you might normally be, you find yourself turning to whoever is sitting near you and telling them a story from your past, something that makes you nostalgic or regretful.
III. INTO THE FOG
CONTENT WARNING: Cruelty and violence against (monster) dogs

After the characters have been in Rhodos for about three weeks, a heavy fog rolls into town. Unlike the mist that surrounds the city, the fog smells of smoke. Visibility is reduced to a mere ten or fifteen feet.

The electricity goes out, and shops are no longer replenished. Food may still be scavenged, but the food in shops and restaurants will slowly rot and may run out. Battery operated items will continue to work as long as the batteries still have a charge. Running water inside the houses continues to work, but it is sluggish and smells stale, leaving an unpleasant film on the skin.

While out on the streets of the town, characters will begin to encounter the monster dogs of Rhodos. The sound of a dragging chain precedes them, and then the hazy outline of a dog comes into view. It's walking oddly, however, with a sort of staggering limp, and the sound of the chain is underlaid by a low, feral growl. Furless gray skin peels away in patches to reveal bloody muscle. The heavy iron collar around the neck is studded with long black screws, the ends of which pierce the skin of the neck. Hazy eyes are clouded with decomposition, and yet that doesn't seem to prevent the dog from making its way straight toward you.

The dogs are not very fast, nor very smart. They can be outpaced at a brisk walk, and they will lose track of any character who gets more than twenty feet away or behind a closed door. But they are vicious. If you get within a few feet, they will lunge at you and attempt to bite. If two or three of them manage to corner you in a blind alley, you could be in real trouble.

In addition to the dogs, characters will begin to catch glimpses of Manifestations, both their own or those of others. At first you might just catch a glimpse of them through a break in the fog, but after a day or two they can be spotted standing outside of apartment windows and staring in. In either case, they will not approach or attack characters unless you're foolish enough to get within six feet of them. Then, they will attack, and they will pursue at a fast walk until they lose track of you in the fog.
IV. WAKING UP TO A NIGHTMARE
CONTENT WARNING: Blood imagery

On the 28th, characters are awakened by the sound of their front doors being smashed in. It's your own smashing door that awakens you, but you can hear more distant sounds of destruction from the other apartments nearby.

As you scramble out of your bed, you find that the homey, quilted bedding has been soaked through with blood, and it's sagging in the middle with the outline of a human body. But before you have a chance to properly react to that horror, your Manifestation is coming through your bedroom door — more than one of them, if you were sharing that bed with anyone.

You will have to fight or dodge in order to get out of the room. Your Manifestation is out for your blood. You can do damage to it, creating deep wounds and heavy bruises, causing it to stagger and slow for a moment, but no matter how much damage you do it keeps coming for you. Sooner or later, you will need to run.

When you make it out into the streets, you'll find that the entire world has changed. Heavy darkness fills the city, and no stars are visible in the sky. A few lights glow despite the lack of electricity, but they only provide a sickly, red-tinted light. Streets are slick with something that looks like blood, and the stone walls in many places have been transformed into metal or grate. Through the grate, you can catch glimpses of black metal hooks and gory, dripping meat that looks human in origin.

There is no palatable food or water. Anything you have saved has rotted or changed unnaturally into what looks like rotting flesh or lumps of bile. Liquid has turned into blood or black water. The only mercy is that symptoms of hunger, thirst and fatigue stabilize after 24 hours and don't get any worse. Don't worry, it won't be the dehydration that kills you here.

Your Manifestation pursues you tirelessly, and the monster dogs are faster, smarter, and moving in packs. Your home is no longer safe, and staying on the streets is deadly.
V. THE BONFIRE
CONTENT WARNING: Body horror, immolation

Sooner or later, you find your way to the bonfire in the middle of the fountain square. There is no longer water in the fountain. Instead, the whole thing towers with flame, fueled by a viscous black substance in the basin.

A tall man stands by the fountain, gazing into the flames as if he is supervising. His suit is true black, fathomless black, while his skin is a dark red-black like the newly formed crust upon a lava flow. His eyes are black pools reflecting the flames. He takes no interest in any approaching characters, and will not respond to any questions. The only thing that will draw his attention to you is an attempted attack. If you try it, your blow lands, but he doesn't seem to take any damage. His head turns toward you and he considers you for a moment, as if he finds it intriguing that you would attempt such a thing. Then he returns his attention to the fire.

The dogs and the Manifestations will not pursue you into the circle of light cast by the bonfire. You can find a sort of respite here.

Time passes. It feels like days, though there is no way to mark the passage of time. The Dark Figure continues to supervise the bonfire.

At last, your attention is drawn to a sort of commotion approaching down one of the main streets that feeds into the plaza. You hear a rattling of metal, and a sort of gibbering moan. The bonfire illuminates first upon a pale, faceless figure which seems to writhe as it approaches, hovering above the paving stones. As it grows closer, you see that the figure is lashed to a square metal frame and bound with strips of barbed wire. Veiled figures on either side bear it forward, and the Dark Figure turns to watch it approach.

The figure upon the frame has no face and no mouth with which to make its agonized moans, but it continues nonetheless. It has limbs but no hands or feet, each limb ending in smooth stumps.

If no one interferes, the Handmaidens carry the frame forward and place it upon the fire.

The Handmaidens can be attacked, and hurt. They cry out indignantly at any attack, and recoil. They will not fight back, but they also will not be discouraged from their task by anything less than persistent violence.

If the pale figure on the frame is rescued by the player characters, it flails and gibbers helplessly, continuing to moan. If the pale figure is consigned to the flames, it begins to scream, and continues screaming for several minutes until the flame finally overcomes it.

In either situation, you begin to cough. Blood spills from your mouth, dribbling down your chin and spattering upon your clothing. But then the droplets begin to slither into letters, forming words that spell out your deepest guilt, in the words you yourself would use to describe it. No attempt to wipe the words away or cover them will prevent their legibility. The blood shines through whatever covers it, catching the firelight so that those around you can clearly read the words.

The Dark Figure and his Handmaidens made their exit while you were coughing. You are left alone with the other Tourists around you, your guilt, and whatever remains of the pale figure upon the frame.
SUMMARY
Arrival: August 1
Sound and Light: August 5-20
Into the Fog: August 21-27
Waking Up to a Nightmare: August 28-30
The Bonfire: August 31

Welcome to Rhodos! Going forward, events will take place in two parts. The Normal World part of the event posted on the 5th of each month, and it will be a lighter event both in terms of length and thematic content. TDMs will be bi-monthly and will feature an event element or elements for the Normal World which in-game characters may also play with on their own log posts. The sections on Fog and Nightmare worlds for the TDM will generally be the same every month, allowing players to test drive those elements if they'd like, but not including spoilers for the second part of that month's event. The second part of the event will be posted on the 20th of each month, covering events occurring through both the Fog and Nightmare cycles.

Test drive memes are considered game canon.

This won't always be the case, but for the nerds among you who are enjoying this sometimes-accurate tour of Rhodes, all location images in this TDM and housing are accurate to Rhodes.

Lastly, we are in need of mods! We're most in need of help for processing apps and activity. If we aren't able to get some additional mods, we will have to place a cap on applications, and we're hoping we won't have to do that. If you're interested, please send us a message over on the mod contact page. We've gotten the mod volunteers we needed so we should be all clear to proceed without an applications cap. Thank you to everyone who showed interest!
standless: (and maybe ask why)

[personal profile] standless 2022-09-21 04:23 am (UTC)(link)
"Only, is it..?"

Jonathan's voice breaks somewhat, and for Speedwagon it is no doubt so strange to see this level of gentleness in this face once again. Joseph took after his Grandfather in many ways physically, but their attitudes could not have been more diverse on the scales of what equated to 'goodness'.

And now, here he is, just like that-

The man swallows, forcing himself back on track. "It is a curious place, isolated from any sort of reality; for a time I had thought this appearance of the place to only be a dream, a vivid nightmare in fact, and yet it has come to this once again. I cannot tell if it is some strange afterlife and hell or otherwise, but with absolute certainty I can say this. It is no place that follows the laws of man."
messageforyou: (Little side eye)

Hermes ☿ Hades ☿ OTA

[personal profile] messageforyou 2022-09-21 06:30 am (UTC)(link)
Arrival

This is a deeply disturbing experience. Stripped of his power? Of his wings? He feels like... like a mortal. And it's hard to imagine anyone not discorporated in the depths of Tartarus who can weave that kind of illusion. Have the Titans escaped, and got Hermes in his sleep?

He's not sure, but all he can do is try to gather information. As he explores, he finds chalk and marks walls with traveler's markings and thieves cant. Soon, he's mapped out the town in his head, and only then does he pick a house with a good view of the others. And before he knows it, there are pictures of his family in that house.

There are pictures of siblings upon siblings upon siblings. Most of which are fellow Olympians. Some of which he hardly knows, some of which he recognizes too well. It feels like whatever has brought him here is taunting him.

Pictures of Iphigenia show up. Pictures of the Pleiades. He doesn't know which of the Pleiades is Maia.

He turns those pictures on their face.

Waking up to a Nightmare

(CW: Body horror)

Hermes wakes up to a horror show.

Something tall and horrible and beautiful stands in his door. Her peplos is torn, revealing what remains of her breasts as a small parasitic creature devours them, razor teeth tearing into flesh. She holds the parasite in one hand, and her other arm and legs stretch too long and unnatural, bending down like a spider to keep her balanced, her skirts torn and stained, her face a black hole with two pinpoint stars as her eyes.

Hermes can't breathe. The parasite chews loudly at her breast, smacking its terrible lips as her palm hits the floor and she crawls closer to him.

And then he jumps out of the window.

He's lost much of his strength, but he's still the god of athletes. He hits the ground at a roll, and the woman is already after him, sticking her black hole face out the window as she fixes the stars of her eyes down below.

"Time to run, I'll race you to safety," he says to the first person he sees, grabbing their elbow roughly to pull them along as he breaks into a sprint.

Bonfire

Regardless of what happens to the figure, Hermes covers his mouth when the blood bubbles up. Blood? It's red? Really, what's happened to him?

And then he notices his chiton, and all the words forming on it.

You abandoned her
took what you wanted and left
like he did
she was happy you were gone


And he promptly starts undoing the clasps of his chiton at his shoulders.

"That's enough of that."

And he just lets the chiton drop to the ground, leaving him just in a loincloth. Don't mind him while he tosses the chiton in the fire.

He's happy just being near-naked. Easy to be happy being near-naked when you have the body of a literal Greek god, though.
Edited 2022-09-21 06:31 (UTC)
spangling: (10)

theater... 3! don't @ me

[personal profile] spangling 2022-09-22 12:40 am (UTC)(link)
[upon entering canaan house and taking stock of the competition, coronabeth remembers thinking that the most impressive thing about the sixth, really, was how unimpressive they appeared? how comfortably they faded into the background. coming from a house of good tastes and bad attitudes, where everyone longed for—sought—the spotlight, such mousiness seemed a novelty; corona found it almost as amusing (re: confusing) as the fact that neither the warden nor his cavalier seemed the least bit interested in her.

but then, of course, everything was blown apart.

literally, in some cases—which is why, as corona lingers nears the back of this almost empty theater, corona doesn't quite know what to make of the sight before her. palamedes, whole; palamedes, back in his own body, alive—or, you know. something akin to it. far be it from corona to be certain of the necromantic state of things without her sister's expertise, and god, if that thought doesn't still send her chest tightening. she is alone in every sense of the word, and what if this is— what if he is—

but above and beyond such concerns is a much more pressing one: the warden is crying. palamedes is crying, and thus corona is moving down the center aisle before she can think better of it, pulling a scrap of something soft and lacy from one of her many pockets. if this is a trap of some sort, then so be it; she's never been very good at ignoring those she is—was?—fond of, so: hi. hello. here she is stopping just short of your chair, pal, as tall and as bright as ever while holding out this very pretty handkerchief.
]

Glasses can only hide so much, Master Warden. Keep crying and everyone will see the bags beneath your eyes. [and then, with a touch of a smile:] And besides that, it will make me terribly sad.

[the threat of her being sad works, like, eight times out of ten?? on non-sixth house members, that is.]
hasapoint: an old scarred woman considers (by Anna Akhmatova)

[personal profile] hasapoint 2022-09-22 01:33 am (UTC)(link)
[Zero oxygen... Need's grasp of what space is doesn't go that far and she barely knows what oxygen is tbh. She hasn't traveled outside of her home reality very often, hers has plenty to keep her occupied and the transit is risky.]

So you do corpse-work and animate constructs made from dead bodies. [This is more bewildering than abhorrent. Someone's probably done it in Velgarth at some point but it's not common.] By chaining elementals and spirits to them or are you able to set up rules to follow?

[You know, something Gideon will absolutely be able to answer.]

Hah, if you think swords don't break down... [Need strokes her hilt absently.] Everything breaks down if you let it. Everything takes maintenance.
navcav: (tell all my haters stay blessed)

[personal profile] navcav 2022-09-22 01:49 am (UTC)(link)
Uh.

[ lol, lmao ]

I'm not a necro myself, so I don't really know all the niggly details. We just had lots of skeletons, where I grew up. Skeletons in the gardens, skeletons in the training arena, skeletons in the kitchens.

[ it's free real estate manual labor, really ]

Ok alright yes, I'll give you that, but a sword isn't going to run out of projectiles or fuel. Only the heretics still use projectile weapons these days, because they love ancient history and hate anything they associate with the Empire, aka swords.
megatheorem: (029)

@s you directly in the eyes

[personal profile] megatheorem 2022-09-22 02:35 am (UTC)(link)
[Palamedes, for his part, is busy weeping into his notes. Onto them, really, which is stupid - he knows better, but he can count on one hand the times in his life he's wept at all, let alone like this, and so he isn't entirely practiced in the art of not getting his messy tears everywhere.

So that's annoying. He only has a pencil, and this flimsy isn't really handling his whole business very well at the moment— he's pulled off his glasses for the nth time, and since his sleeves are too tear-wet to wipe them off by now, he's just holding them out to shake dry. This is where he's at, professionally and spiritually, when the unexpectedly familiar presence of, okay, the more charming Third twin looms up beside his seat.

Not that he'll say that; it's implied in the way he's willing to stick his specs back on his face and look up at her not-unpleasantly, a favor her other half would not have earned. Not that he'll say that, either.

So! Hm!]


Can't have that, [he says, flatly but not, like, meanly? Take this effort. He accepts the hanky, which he will most definitely ruin with pencil smudges more than his sloppy crying, thanks.] You start looking peaky when you're worried, if I remember correctly.

[xoxo just looking out for your complexion, gurl. Anyway, is this weird... this is probably weird, but as a Sixth, he's excused from feeling an iota of discomfort about it.]

Thank you. I didn't expect to see you here.

[Or, like, anyone, but that's innocuous enough to start with.]
megatheorem: (023)

[personal profile] megatheorem 2022-09-22 03:08 am (UTC)(link)
[Stop, that's going to tempt him to enjoy all kinds of Harrow things. When she makes her little murdery face, when she traps herself in a weird egg...

Well, he can put a pin in missing Harrow, for later. He's still coasting on the high of Gideon being here to complain about Harrow, or the lack thereof? Either one— he'll take what he can get.

So: the walking, and he knows he's never going to Enjoy an Iced Cream but he still looks, for moral support. This is, for all intents and purposes, a normal town— or the closest approximation of what Palamedes knows a "normal town" to be like, given, well, the whole of the Sixth being a hot little bunker. A normal (maybe) town full of weirdos; nobody's perfect, he supposes.]


In fairness, we don't flog nuns on the Sixth, either. But let's round back: never heard of necromancy? Really? That's a lot stranger than there simply being no necromancers.

[Could it also be something to worry about? Maybe-probably-yeah! Hmm.]

How did you get to talking about flogging, anyway?
megatheorem: (021)

[personal profile] megatheorem 2022-09-22 03:17 am (UTC)(link)
[Palamedes' eyebrows go up just that much higher, which has the unfortunate effect of making his glasses slide down his nose; the whole picture of his completely innocuous surprise is nearly comical, but ah— "spirit plane," and "took the time to work out how"... Well! It's familiar in the precise way he'd have never expected, which is what prompts him to offer,]

I'm not that well-versed in other-world bullshit, but I'd put money on it. It doesn't feel... Well, it doesn't feel like anything to me, and it should. If we're having a similar problem - something's flipped a switch, but the lights are different - I'd wager it's the plane, rather than some bored asshole sitting in a dingy office somewhere, laughing at us.

[That's what people in charge of rules are like. He considers, then stoops to root in the pack again for the needle and thread. Judgment call: better give it a shot.

As he straightens back up, plucking at the end of the thread,]
Define 'dead,' please, if you don't mind. In general, to you.
spangling: (02)

😎 i can't see

[personal profile] spangling 2022-09-22 03:51 am (UTC)(link)
[listen: upon offering her hanky to this weeping warden, corona accepted the fact that it would be lost forevermore. it's fine? it's fine. what's more important, in this moment, is his tone as he addresses her—because while, say, babs would have found it offensive, corona finds it almost stupidly reassuring. there is nothing more sixth in this world! something she feels she can say with confidence, after spending so much time in camilla's company; something she has learned to appreciate.

plus, like. if palamedes wanted her gone, then he would say as much—which is why, as her smile widens just a tad, she takes a few steps forward, stepping into the row in front of his. don't worry, don't worry, she isn't planning to block his view for long—
]

Oh, that makes two of us, [she says, aiming for lightness (and almost making it) as she slips down the aisle.] And that means that neither of us is alone.

[if he is alone. she doesn't see camilla, no, but that is the sixth's specialty—and who knows? maybe this is some weird... reverse uno situation; maybe it's camilla hiding out in pal's body, this time. you can't put anything past the sixth, once you know them! all the more reason, then, to play nice—which is why corona drops into the seat catty corner from pal's, crossing her long legs before her as she twists back around to face him. the rapier at her hip makes it somewhat difficult, true, but you know corona... she somehow makes it seem effortless all the same...

anyway, as she props an elbow atop the back of this shitty seat (because why not try to treat this like any other situation, why not act as in control as ever):
]

Which is why I'll forgive the insinuation that I've ever looked anything but my best. It is good to see you. [slight stress on the you? whaaaat?] Bags and all.
messageforyou: (No help whatsoever)

Fire

[personal profile] messageforyou 2022-09-22 04:50 am (UTC)(link)
[Instead of letting his secrets be revealed by his own blood, Hermes literally threw his chiton into the fire. Which means he's wearing nothing but his boots, his scarf, and his perizoma, but he doesn't seem bothered by that. Hard to be bothered by being mostly naked when you have the body of a literal Greek god.

So he sits on the edge of the fire next to this miserable-looking man, and Hermes leans back on his elbows as he glances at the man with a lopsided sardonic smile.]


You can say that again.
abella: (| 1.)

ianthe tridentarius | the locked tomb

[personal profile] abella 2022-09-22 04:58 am (UTC)(link)
II. SOUND AND LIGHT
[ you might wonder how a woman with only one functional arm has climbed the wall behind the theater. don't. ianthe is capable of many things, and climbing a wall is the least interesting of these.

if you're curious or stupid enough to join her, you'll find her multitasking: she's stolen one of the colored plastic slides from the theater. it's propped in her lap like a tabletop, her crossed knees keeping it steady. she has placed a photograph atop its surface, kept in place by the drape of her useless right arm. it's been stripped of all meat; only the bone below remains, gaudy in gold. if you venture near enough to look over her shoulder, you might be able to make out the people in the photograph: a pair of twins, one much lovelier than the other, dressed in white and gold. in the middle is a handsome young man, his eyes a startling shade of blue.

oh, and she's eating gelato, too. sort of. the cup sweats beside her, its contents beginning to melt. ]


Come on, do catch up.

[ she murmurs under her breath, running a fingernail over the photograph. she does it again, this time with force, tracing out the young man in the picture. and then she systematically rips up the torn-away sliver of photo paper, letting the wind pluck away the scraps.

that had been the intent, at least. the wind deposits almost all of it into her cup of gelato.

of course.

she's actually sneering. her face might have been beautiful if you looked at her cross-eyed in the dark. standing on your head might help, too. like this, with her features twisted with malice, she might have been a whorl of melted wax. a wicked witch splashed with holy water.

it's just gelato! does it really warrant this level of hatred?

apparently. ]


Won't even let me indulge my sweet tooth in peace, hmm?

[ maybe you climbed up to keep her distant figure company. or maybe you happened to be the poor sod walking by when she tipped her cup of gelato over the wall. ]


III. INTO THE FOG
[ a rational sort might take one look at the slavering beasts loping forwards and make a quick exit. as ianthe seems to have sloughed away her rationality, she simply remains still, wraithlike in the fog. in her left hand is a rapier, Cohort standard issue. her right arm is a cascade of golden bone, stripped of flesh; it dangles at her side, useless.

she tosses her rapier into the air and catches it neatly, form picture-perfect. (except, of course, for the arm of bone that swings about pitifully, but that's neither here nor there). ]


Nice evening, isn't it?

[ astonishingly, the dog doesn't reply.

growling low in its throat, blind to the blade that glitters in her grip, it stalks forward.

violence is so rarely a beautiful thing. the rapier itself might resemble an arc of light when ianthe brings her arm down, but there's no build-up to the swing. no rising tide of a symphony in the background, coming to a crescendo the moment her blade bites into the beast's neck. it isn't even a clean cut; she has to raise the blade twice more to hack the head off the body. it falls away with an eloquent splat; ianthe's curse when blood splashes onto her shoes is considerably less eloquent.

she flicks the blade clean of gore, and smiles to herself. it's not a very nice smile. her rapier blade gathers light more easily, even. if a spider had a mouth, it might smile like so.

so it goes, for minutes upon minutes. for all that her body lacks grace, she moves like she was coached. like god himself choreographed the steps she takes. one dead beast becomes two, then five. by the time she's gathered a gory pile of a dozen, she's silvered by sweat, her eyes luminous in the dark.

at the scuff of a shoe against the ground, she turns with her rapier held high. ]


Are you human?

—Or dog, perhaps? A bit of both? [ a mean little chuckle. ]

[ by now, it's not only her shoes that are stained. blood trickles down her temple, it darkens her hairline. there's even a bit caught in her eyelashes. ]
spangling: (03)

into the fog! ianthe, baby... 🥺

[personal profile] spangling 2022-09-22 05:47 am (UTC)(link)
[let it be known that there is little satisfaction to be found in murdering four-legged creatures? even as coronabeth finds herself trembling, adrenaline getting the best of her, the monsters that lunge at her are far less difficult to defeat than her past training partners; the ninth house rapier, hideous though it may be, still slices through her enemies' necks with ease, allowing its wielder some degree of confidence as she pushes through this heavy fog. she is a new person, she tells herself. less a princess, more a king.

and yet, as that all-too-familiar drawl cuts through the temporary silence—

well.

another creature leaps at her, teeth bared; she cuts it down midair, kicking past its corpse without any true care in the world, because that voice—! that voice. some part of corona despairs, even as some greater part of the whole rejoices—for it is better to be together isn't it? always. two halves will only make a half, unless they are matched, meant to be something greater...
]

You always were fond of calling others bitches. I never was an exception.

[spoken slowly, measuredly, as corona steps into sight. her rapier is held before her; she looks every bit the warrior princess, prepared to strike at the heart of her enemy—

—until, of course, eyes meet eyes. there is a sudden shudder; there is the sound of a corona taking a short, sharp breath as she lowers her weapon, because it's impossible to ignore the staccato rhythm of her heart. how does one describe the relief they feel, upon spying the other half of their soul? how does one ignore it; how does one do anything other than admit defeat by virtue of saying, desperately:
]

Oh, Ianthe—

[let her close this distance and she will! she will tangle the fingers of her free hand into ianthe's somewhat paler hair; she will tug ianthe closer, pressing their foreheads together before closing her eyes with a shuddering sigh. she's been alone for a while now, thanks. exploring this new place was fun until it very much wasn't—and now that they are once again reunited, two halves of a true whole, everything is suddenly that much easier to bear.]
messageforyou: (Little side eye)

Into the Fog

[personal profile] messageforyou 2022-09-22 07:04 am (UTC)(link)
[Wanda is not the only one not used to being powerless, not that Hermes will advertise that. Once a god, he now just looks like a normal young man as he glances over Wanda's shoulder to see if the monsters are on her heels.]

Yeah, they're everywhere.

[Hermes' eyes trace the buildings around them, finding one with vines growing up to the top.]

We could try climbing to a roof. Can't get much of a view in this weather, but might avoid the dogs.
messageforyou: (Listening)

Sound and Light

[personal profile] messageforyou 2022-09-22 07:09 am (UTC)(link)
Hermes figured out quickly that something is wrong with the shadow puppets. Some dark magic that he can't afford to be ensnared by, so he cups his hand at his face to block his periphery vision when he approaches the shaking woman. It keeps him from seeing the performance.

"Then don't watch it." He says it like it's obvious, which... alright, maybe it is to him, but at least there's some sympathy in his voice as he takes her by the elbow. He doesn't consider asking her permission before grasping her; he's used to different rules for personal space applying to him. "Come with me. The performance isn't worth the ticket price anyway."
megatheorem: (006)

[personal profile] megatheorem 2022-09-22 08:26 pm (UTC)(link)
[Well, Palamedes thinks, at least someone is having a halfway decent night. Surely one doesn't just wander around in this little clothing when the night is terrible? Hah. He makes a face, strained— it's his earnest attempt at a pleasant smile, spoiled by all the blood and threatening writing he still has on.

Points for trying, anyway. He sighs and reaches up to take off his glasses, and stops - blood!! again!! - then looks down at himself for a clean spot left to wipe his hands on. Yes indeed, it's a hell of a night...]


I could; maybe later. I have a bad feeling this town's laundry services aren't going to hold up under pressure, pretty soon.

[laundry is totally the biggest problem here]
hasapoint: a steady level gaze (I cannot strive nor have I heart for str)

[personal profile] hasapoint 2022-09-22 10:12 pm (UTC)(link)
[No nearly, it is comical. She half suppresses a smile, though that might also be his description of that bored asshole in an office.]

That little clear case at the bottom. The black thread, that's the largest spool, it's got the tightest fibers. You know how to thread and tie off a needle? [She'd found one of those tiny travel-sized sewing kits in a plastic case.] I'd say just bind me up but if I've got to fight anything... [Need grimaces. She's physically a very vigorous seventy-odd but still, seventy. Very far from her fighting prime, especially after having escaped a few encounters already.]

Heh. In 'general', you've got death of the body, of course. Then comes death of the mind. All those things like memory, continuity, identity and so on don't stay intact long without enough support. Usually that's the brain they started on running as intended. After that, and there's a lot of overlap with the mind, I'll admit, is dissolution of the soul. Normally that's under the purview of the gods.

[Usually and normally are pulling a lot of weight there.]

Would yours be different, boy?
baring: (Default)

bellamy blake — the 100

[personal profile] baring 2022-09-22 10:12 pm (UTC)(link)
⧽ ARRIVAL
( the world outside is wrong — the sun and the sky should both be working in tandem to destroy all remaining life on the planet. there shouldn’t be a planet. he shouldn’t be on solid ground at all. in fact, he should be dead, reclaimed by nature. somehow, that finality doesn't come for him, which is probably the luckiest he's been in years. first, he wanders to the front window of the shop he sprinted into to get out of the weather and peers in dismay at the courtyard. it just doesn't make any sense. the intact buildings, the electricity, the survivable surface. the next action he takes is to secure the door by pushing a heavy table in front of it. not the best blockade in existence, but someone would still have to crawl over or under, or take the time of pushing it to follow him. it'll do. either way, he'll get an alert via sound and a heads-up is the only thing he can hope for.

not being able to shove the pieces of a puzzle together hasn't slowed bellamy down before, so it won't now.

he takes what he needs, eventually moves from one shop to another, scrambling for resources in short order. he finds a long screwdriver in a toolbox under a counter and snatches a backpack right off the wall to stow water in. food is a necessity, yet not at the forefront of his mind. who's running these shops? where did the hot food come from? why hasn't he encountered a single other living person?

the one conclusion he has is that he needs to get the hell out of town. armed with said screwdriver at his side, he steps through the archway and into the fog. he gets spun around five times before he growls in frustration and slaps a hand against the stones. does it solve anything? no. does he feel any better? also no.

but it does put him near enough that he can hear more footsteps in the fog and he backs up, raising his empty hand as a means of careful communication.
)

I'm not looking for trouble. ( he does not ( and will not ) disarm himself, all the same. he doesn't want trouble, but he won't flinch away from it. )

⧽ SOUNDS AND LIGHT
( the shadow play is disturbing in ways that all stories from the ground are. where there are people, there is sure to be treachery and murder. it isn't exclusive to living on a planet, plenty of life in space consisted of doing whatever it took to survive. this is no different. he watches the performance until he can't gleam anything new from it, save for the minute changes that add scarce little to the narrative. what narrative? whose narrative?

as it goes on, bellamy's expression turns more and more sour, assisted by the stray wanderers that file into the theater. his shoulders go from a firm line to sinking, curling inward defensively, paranoid in his absorbance.

quick to anger, slow to vulnerability, he rises from his seat the second he feels the anguish overtake him. without explanation, there are tears streaming down his face. he swipes at them furiously with the back of his hand, mixing tears with dirt. for any person with a sense of compassion that dares to approach him or so much as look in his direction, he snaps:
) Stay away from me.

( or, after his ascension of the stairs to get to the projector and smash it on the floor, )

No one should have to watch this.

⧽ WAKING UP FROM A NIGHTMARE
Ⅰ.
( once, he wouldn't have been caught dead stacking more burdens on his shoulders. he would've heard screaming and let them work it out themselves. people slow you down, people get you killed or worse. now, he understands that no singular person gets through war alone. you need someone watching your back. trust is a commodity, yet without it, no one makes it through the dark. this is the decision he's had to make after climbing out his bathroom window in the middle of the night, leaving literal hell behind him.

he doesn't make it far on foot. no matter how far he runs or what alley he turns down, there's something snarling or gurgling ( choking on water, on oxygen ) in the shadows. whatever he ends up doing, he knows one thing, he can't stop moving.

bellamy can't look it in the face again.
)

We can't stay here. ( here, crawling through a ventilation system with the rats and grime, waiting for something to climb up and join them. ) We have to keep going. Those things are outside. It's not going to take them long to figure out how to get in and when they do, we can't be trapped up here.

( when he reaches the end of the shaft, he kicks open a vent and drops down first into a currently quiet room. )

Quickly. Let's go.

Ⅱ. cw: animal death, violence, blood, body horrors via radiation
( logic tells him that the dead are incapable of rising again. well, there's no place for logic in these streets. the paved stones run red and wet, condensation or blood; he doesn't stop to investigate. there's no rhyme or reason to explain how shambling scorched, irradiated, half-skeletal beings are managing to remain upright. he can't process what he's seeing because to do that, he'd have to stop and attribute a former face to this horror.

to reflect upon all the people he left behind so that he could live.

the thing that follows him now wears only the headpiece of a hazmat suit with cracked glass, somehow completely obscuring what's inside of the mask. there's only darkness inside to match the darkness out here. it's the same creature that burst through the door of his apartment, more jutting bones than skin. he tells himself that they don't leave black pools of blood, it's an illusion, carefully paired with the burned state of the rest of their body.

but he can't stop seeing it when he closes his eyes.

he's running out of ammunition and every time he fires a shot, he's not only losing more, he's sending a metaphorical flare into the sky to pinpoint his exact location. his jacket's torn at the bicep, sleeve entirely gone and there's a strip of fabric tied roughly around his arm to slow the bleeding.

bellamy's temporarily resting in the large kitchen of what appears to be a restaurant, with an insistent thumping coming from inside a walk-in freezer. from the sound of it, something is throwing itself against the door, over and over again. perhaps the sound draws you in, but maybe you're here for the same reason he is: stockpiling weapons.

bloodied meat tenderizer in hand, gore intermingled with freckles across his face, he sniffs loudly. there's one collapsed dog in the dining room and another near the corroded drain in the floor.
)

Don't open that.


( honestly, HUGE content warning for the 100's everything ranging from war, murder, violence, genocide, betrayal, and all other horrors you can probably think of. i will gloss over this as much as i can generally speaking but as this is a horror setting and his manifestation will dredge up very particular memories and trauma, it may come up in threads either in meta or conversation. fair warning for dark themes getting extra dark! you can hit me up over at [plurk.com profile] talldarkandgay if you have questions, etc. )
Edited 2022-09-22 22:18 (UTC)
messageforyou: (On the go)

[personal profile] messageforyou 2022-09-22 11:02 pm (UTC)(link)
["Halfway decent night" might be overstating it, but Hermes is happy to pretend that he's fine with all the blood that smears his mouth and he occasionally has to wipe away.]

Salt and cold water should take care of all the bloodstains nicely, I hear. [Not like gods do much of their own laundry, but Hermes is the sort of god that hears of in-home tricks like that.] Or maybe we'll just get used to a new fashionable red color for our clothes.
megatheorem: (023)

[personal profile] megatheorem 2022-09-22 11:12 pm (UTC)(link)
Well, red isn't really my color. [The limited light of just this bonfire might obscure it some, but he's grey from head to toe under the blood. Color is, as it happens, not his color. Also the writing is very rude and upsetting, which, speaking of—]

Is that what happened to your clothes? You got used to it? [obviously not, ahem.] Not trying to be piercing, but you're wandering around like... this.

[A gesture: this, the mostly-nude bit, Like This.]
messageforyou: (Listening)

[personal profile] messageforyou 2022-09-22 11:33 pm (UTC)(link)
[Hermes spares the human(?) a look, smirking in a way that says he knows something. Or that might just be his face. (That's just his face.)]

Is this not normal for you?

[He gestures at himself. Frankly, living on a mountain with Aphrodite and Dionysus makes this feel positively modest.]

I threw my chiton in the fire. I like to keep my business to myself. [He jerks his head towards the fire.] You can burn yours too, boss.
megatheorem: (029)

[personal profile] megatheorem 2022-09-22 11:52 pm (UTC)(link)
It's not, but I mean to say: you've got blood on your mouth.

[He's seen bodies before, although most of them, hm, deceased? Still, he's not offended by an unconventional choice in what clothes to burn. So maybe he is trying to be a little piercing, which, hey! Burning the chiton does answer one of his questions.

But he's polite, so he's not going to ask about what it said. His own messy red stains might be repetitive, but at least he doesn't have to guess that other people might find their own... super unwelcome.]


Regardless— I don't want to burn my shirt. I'm terribly fragile under here.
mehanizovati: (5)

[personal profile] mehanizovati 2022-09-22 11:55 pm (UTC)(link)
[viktor saw that, but he does not judge. truly everyone had to learn to use a screwdriver to take apart property that didn't belong to them at some point. that's just life.]

Ah- [well, with that a lot of things come into understanding. the view screens are a far more interesting concept now.] You are from... would it be called a space colony?

[look at that, viktor can now lift the piece enough that they can get a good look at all the cool mirrors and lenses and shit. he's not impressed, tbh, but he can't help an amused snort when he says,] The space colony business is far easier for me to believe. I envy you, I've met a grand total of three. Hm, four, if you don't change dramatically.
messageforyou: (:3)

[personal profile] messageforyou 2022-09-22 11:58 pm (UTC)(link)
Shirt, you call it? Interesting.

[Hermes breezes by the implied question. He likes to keep his business to himself after all. And he's being polite by refraining from asking the man about his own shirt.]

I don't see what armor it gives you that bare skin doesn't, but I'm no expert.
navcav: (Default)

[personal profile] navcav 2022-09-23 01:19 am (UTC)(link)
[ no pal nooooooooo

there'll be no shortage of gideon complaining about harrow, in any case. she nods enthusiastically, glad there's somebody else around to understand how weird it is to be surrounded by... civilians? normies? heathens? gideon has even less of a standard for 'ordinary,' aside from what she's read in magazines and stuff.

reflexively, ]


You don't have nuns on the Sixth, Sixth. Real nuns enjoy a whipping, everybody knows that.

Do you think they're anti-House heretics? I've never met a heretic, granted, but I always assumed they would... I don't know, act the part. In the comics they froth at the mouth.

[ breezily, ]

Oh, he said he was a prince. It's a big part of royal duties, flogging. And having to bang in public, for some reason.
megatheorem: (008)

[personal profile] megatheorem 2022-09-23 02:24 am (UTC)(link)
Well, it is a shirt. I don't know what a chiton is, admittedly.

[Facts!! If he had to guess based purely on, hm, remaining clothes, he might guess a jumpsuit of some kind? Who can say. He's not guessing, but instead plucking at his slowly drying shirt, which of course does nothing to prove its worth as armor.]

As for bare skin, there's contact dermatitis, for a start. The rather large fire just over there is spitting out all kinds of smoke that just might make me break out in hives, you know. Don't get me wrong— there's merit in the knowing, but I'm not really in the mood.