TDM #1

[rhodosmods]

TDM #1: AUGUST

Jump to: Arrival · Sound and Light · Into the Fog · Waking Up to a Nightmare · The Bonfire
Summary · Questions

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!

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Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd | Fire Emblem: Three Hopes

[blooddyd]

I. ARRIVAL
[ Upon first look, Dimitri almost blends in too well with his new surroundings; a tall man in armor roaming the streets, lost though he may seem, would not be such a strange sighting to come across in a medieval fortress city, like a knight patrolling the castle walls just a little ways ahead. In a sense, it feels too close to home.

It's not until a few days later that he begins to realize just how accurate a thought that might be. The formal suit of the King of Faerghus has materialized in his closet, along with Areadbhar, and he can't help the distinct feeling his chosen lodgings have been decorated as though meant especially for his use -- complete with a slew of familiar faces hanging on his walls.

So he sits outside his apartment one afternoon, the lion on his chest plate facing down the handful of frames splayed across his lap: one of tan, brooding man in armor, one of a quartet of children with toy wooden swords in hands, one of a little girl in twin tails. The portrait in his hands is more mirror than painting, the armored blond king with such broad shoulders beaming up at another who could easily pass as his younger self; near identical, if not for the smile. ]

They look... so real.

II. SOUND AND LIGHT
[ Rhodos does, indeed, hit too close to home, but the puppet play? That's almost a little too on the nose.

The first time he watches the play, his eyes never move from the stage, intent like he tries to decipher a secret message. For the second session, his chin rests on his knuckles, his body sagging forth with a weight he doesn't recognize as his own, his muscles lacking in his usual strength. Anyone who stumbles upon him for the following repetitions may find him:

a. reminiscing over his past, though the memory doesn't inspire nostalgia. Whatever the case, he swallows down the knot in his throat, and casts all sense of propriety aside as he pours his burdens out to the unfortunate bystander who happens to be seated next to him. ]

The same happened to my father that day. That woman... she betrayed us all.

[ Well. At least there was no necromancing involved?

b. weeping uncontrollably over the mechanical remains of the slide projector, thoroughly cut to pieces with the help of his sword and the kind of desperate frenzy that overcompensates for the loss of power. Silence takes over the theater, but his sobs promptly break it, the hand on his chest gripping metal as though trying to physically hold on to a breath he couldn't take-- and in failing that, to rip the pain out and his heart with it. ]

I swear, I will avenge you... Just please... please wait a little bit longer...

III. BONFIRE
[ It's a survival secret well-known to all: wild beasts fear fire. Moved only by instinct and years of training and the pointed knowledge he could not afford to die here, Dimitri eventually finds that both the deathly hounds and phantoms that were once after him are no longer giving chase. For as long as they could not be killed, he would have to either run or seek refuge; an open plaza felt like it suited neither option, but it is the only choice laid out before him.

But wild beasts fear fire, and he is a beast himself. The faceless figure and the Handmaidens make it clear this is closer to a sacrifical pyre instead, he tries to put up a fight, to save this soul who still cried out for their life, but their anguished moans-- and later, their dying screams as the flames consumed them... it is all too much, and again, he is helpless. Again, he feels that familiar pang of too-close-to-home, of faces both old and new writhing in their final moments, of voices he has heard for years-- taunting him, inviting him, rallying him up.

Again, he relives the agony of Duscur. And when the fits of coughing catch up to him, his blood spells out another secret well-known to all: ]

You should have died with them.

IV. WILDCARD
[ Got something else in mind? PM this account and hit me up! ]

3 - bonfire

[songmother]

no light, no light, in your bright blue eyes
i never knew daylight could be so violent

[ At first, the bonfire was a comfort, despite the tall, demonic figure observing and seemingly honoring it. He gave no indication of being a threat, and proximity to the wretched flames, for once in her life, provided sanctuary from the demons at her door. Or it did, for awhile that she could not track in terms of hours or days, but it was certainly more than a day. Sarah had spent most of it staring into the flames, reflecting on everything she had experienced, mostly with a tinge of guilt and regret, afraid to take her thoughts too far.

Until there wasn't a choice. When the Handmaidens came, taking a wretched, faceless prisoner towards the flames, she could only think of all the witches sacrificed - hanged or burned alive - not to appease some ancient God or secure safety, in any reality beyond religious fervor, but because humans could not handle their existence. And while this island was still a mystery, apparently containing Hellish threats, she could not help but rise and shout. This being, surely, did not deserve such a death. No one did.

Sarah had joined the handsome young knight and others in an attempt to protect the being, and fight off his captors, (while personally electing to leave the tall, smoldering stoker of fire alone) but nothing could die and it was a futile effort.

As the creature burned, she screamed, for a moment, seeing the face of every witch she had ever known -sister, daughter, friend- where the creature had no face. She was distraught, and beyond herself, anger turning to violent tears streaming down her face as she screamed in agony for all of those lost. It was, admittedly, never about the thing they were sacrificing, but about her guilt, failure, and inability to protect generations of those like her, despite her power and authority. She coughed and choked and spluttered up an inky, ominous message before her in her own blood: It should have been you.

Dazed and disoriented with grief, sobbing, she noticed others were having a similar experience, and glanced at the words before the blonde young warrior near her. Eager for the distraction from her own pain, she turned to him, inching closer, though not standing. She could not find it in her to rise, yet. ]

No, you should not have died with them. We must live, and honor their sacrifice.

[blooddyd]

[ Sacrifice. How much longer must this word haunt him so? Those who died in the tragedy of Duscur to defend their ideals, to protect their king and Dimitri himself, and those who continued to throw their lives away on a war that hangs on his shoulders... Should he die before seeing his mission through, he knows he will be rendering their sacrifice useless, and so he cannot afford to give up.

But the words that stain the ground beneath his feet, red and alive like the blood that insists on running in his veins and in his heart? He knows them to be true. A secret he will be covetously keeping to himself. ]

That was no sacrifice. It was murder, no matter how you look at it.

[ It takes some effort to hold his tongue on his more personal memories, and also on the words before his newfound companion-- words that so closely mirror his own in spirit. It is not his place to pry. ]

My apologies, that was insensitive of me. [ A small shake of his head. ] Were you... acquainted with that figure?

[ Even amid his own stupor, he recalls her screams and her tears, at least. Anguished, as though she herself burned in the flames-- anguish like his memory knows too well. ]

[songmother]

[ Sarah took in his words, no more harsh than truth could sometimes be. Though she did not know his own experience, she knew the loss of comrades never felt as glorious as those in command of war often chose or had no choice but to rebrand it for morale, and for their own sanity. Her tone softened, as the connection to another in the current situation washed her with a sense of comfort. Sarah preferred company, especially in this hellish setting. ]

No need to apologize - you're right. While I do not know what you experienced, I should not presume. All the same, however they died, I would not want to see the same for you. I have lost many friends and companions to war, and worse. It brings me guilt, to live when they do not. But the only thing I can imagine worse than dying is watching any more of them taken from life too soon.

[ She reflects on the creature's face, reflecting that of others again, closing her eyes until remembering them was too painful. She opened them and meant to meet his own bright-eyed gaze. ]

I did not know it, but where it had no face, I saw the faces of many I have loved and lost. Besides, no one deserves to die that way. What if the next ...offering... is one of us?

[blooddyd]

[ There's a split second when his lips part, but only a stifled breath comes out as though that's any kind of protest. It brings me guilt, to live when they do not, she says, and for this one moment he feels like she has found better words to name his own torment than he ever dared to voice.

How does he get over this guilt, all consuming as it is? How does he stop wishing to die, if only for the sake of those who want and need him to live? Somehow, he doesn't ask. ]

I... suppose that must be true. [ It's about as close to conceding as he can get, under the circumstances. ] Had our fates been reversed, and I, the one to perish, I know I would not wish for them to join me in the flames.

[ Rationally, he knows so. But reason has always been his weakness, and the heart that longs for his own death speaks so much louder... ]

Regardless, you are correct: no one deserves to die such needless death, least of all when they so clearly wish to live. Should those monsters come after us, then we'll have no choice but to raise arms and fight to our last breath. Until then... it would be prudent to learn all we can about the enemy.

[ But where to start? The castle? ]

IIa

[octaplicitous]

[Azul still isn't sure what to make of this play; it changes every time, but he can't quite track when or why, other than the vague sense that it is different.

He's pretty engrossed in the performance when the man seated near him starts talking, and it actually pulls his attention away, because this sounds like someone's sorrow.

And in this place, with his magic gone and no help foreseeably coming, connections are a good thing to have. And Azul has one tried and true way of making "connections."]

Oh? Well, that sounds absolutely horrific.

[He moves from his seat one away from Dimitri to come closer, his voice full of concern and yet, if Dimitri listens, it doesn't sound particularly sincere.]

Why don't you tell me all about it? Talking about ones troubles and sorrows is the start of addressing them, after all.

[blooddyd]

[ Is he getting therapy talk from an octopus witch...

To Azul's dismay, Dimitri is far too used to that particular kind of tone, the polite pleasantries and fake concern coated in sugar-- so much like his uncle's at his father's funeral, and every other servant the man later assigned to him as a means to keep a close eye on a boy he feared like a beast. A lion's cub, he used to call him.

Alas, to Dimitri's dismay, he finds it hard to bite his own tongue right now. He tries to fight it, tries to dismiss the urge -- and the prodding -- with a firm shake of his head, but to no avail. ]

There is not much else to say, I'm afraid. [ In truth, it's one more stubborn attempt at keeping his silence, though it doesn't pan out. ] My father was the king of Faerghus, and he had hoped to establish peaceful relations with Duscur, a country across our borders. My stepmother personally assisted dissenting lords into staging a coup, and as a result, he was murdered right before my eyes, his head severed clean off his shoulders.

[ How's that for story time? ]

[octaplicitous]

[He's just here to help the miserable, lonely, and depressed!

Azul listens, his expression morphing into a concerned frown. Even so, he's wondering what he got himself into by talking to this guy; royalty still exists in Azul's world, but bloody coops are largely confined to history, replaced now by political trickery.]

I see. I understand why this play must have triggered such a recollection.

[Since it is also showing the bloody death of a king... which actually has him wondering, is this play showing them something connected to the people here, and not the town itself?

(He's wrong, but right now that's a theory he's considering.)

Nothing in the current play pertains to Azul himself, though, so he can't be sure. His stepfather is loving, and if he ever tried anything on his mother Azul would be after him himself. But he doesn't bring that up; he doesn't think it would be appreciated.]

Would you like to leave? Maybe watching this isn't the best for your mental health.

[He wants to see if and how the play changes if Dimitri leaves.]

[blooddyd]

[ Miserable, lonely and depressed, that sounds like Dimitri alright.

But also, do forgive him if he stares a bit in response for a moment, his eyebrows knitted closely together as though trying to piece an unexpected puzzle together. ]

My... mental health?

[ If he looks like Azul has just spoken gibberish to him, it's because, to Dimitri, he may as well have. We don't have therapy in the dark ages, buddy! ]

Whatever the case, I'm not sure even stepping away would do much. With or without this play, whether I close my eyes or in my every waking moment, the memory haunts me ceaselessly. Their faces, their screams in agony... they will always haunt me.

[ And there he goes again, unburdening his heart to a stranger, and he knows he should not, but this urge to talk, to let the words come out as though they clogged up his throat gasping for air... he can't make it stop. ]

... my apologies. I appreciate your concern, but I'm afraid I must not make for much pleasant company at the moment.

[ Or: Azul should leave on his own! Unless he wants to try the honesty thing? I hear it goes a long way! ]

[octaplicitous]

[Oh good lord. What sort of caveman is he dealing with, honestly?

Azul does not let his disdain for that question show on his face, though.]

Mental health. It's a catchall term for the health of your brain; your condition in regards to your emotional and psychological wellbeing.

[Did all those words go over the caveman's head too?]

From what you've just said to me, it sounds like you may be suffering from PTSD - that is, post-traumatic stress disorder. It's a neurological condition stemming from witnessing traumatic events. Some of the symptoms include panic attacks, nightmares, hallucinations... Why, I myself-

[Azul chokes on what he was about to say next. Where did that come from? He doesn't spill his guts to strangers, strangers spill his guts to him!]

...That is, I don't mind. That you aren't... pleasant company.

[blooddyd]

[ Hey, he's no caveman! He even knows how to make a fire! (So long as you never ask him to use magic for it, that is.)

The explanation given is simple enough, and while he can reasonably make sense of it, the concept alone feels so... foreign. Staying on physical peak shape, he can understand, but it's not as if there's any training he can submit himself to in order to strengthen his heart and mind, is there? That kind of emotional wisdom only comes with age and experience. And maybe not even then, if you're Faerghan.

It's what Azul says next that rings truest to him: nightmares and hallucinations stemming from a traumatic event. For the past half decade, he's known Duscur has left a toll on him, that these voices and faces plaguing his thoughts are not real and yet he only ever saw it as... something to deal with. On his own. Occasionally with Felix, after much... argumentative persistence. Something that would never go away, no matter how much he shared.

But for this man to liken it to health... It almost makes it sound as there could at least be improvement. ]

I'm... familiar with those. Nightmares and... waking dreams. Ever since the tragedy, I haven't been able to stop hearing the voices and seeing the faces of all who were taken from me that day. They clamor for revenge, and demand that those responsible for their deaths will not see the light of another day. That duty lies squarely upon my shoulders.

[ A brief pause, as he considers his own words. Normally not the type of burden you would share with a stranger, but he just can't stop it. ]

Are you... sure you don't mind my company? Despite all that I just revealed?

[ You know. Despite him clearly not being very good in the head! ]

[octaplicitous]

[He clearly isn't, but Azul finds himself sitting there and listening to all this anyway. It doesn't seem like Dimitri is actively dangerous, anyway, at least not to himself...]

I don't. I have... something of a habit of listening to other people's troubles. It's just the sort of person I am. [He can't help but smile again, at that, that big salesman smile he used before.] The spirit of the Sea Witch's benevolence lives on in me, you could say.

And based on what you've told me, you're quite troubled. But I think it is as I say... and there is help for it, you know. Therapy, medications... Though I'm not sure how much of either are to be found here.

[This is the problem with them apparently being in a ghost town, no mental health facilities! (Or any other facilities to speak of.)]

But if we can actually find our way back to civilization there may be hope for you yet!

ii-b

[torpour]

[how does one even console a weeping man? a man much, much larger than oneself, no less. and he does think it was a rather extreme response for a story... especially one that is better thought about rather than wept over.

still, nehan digs into his pockets with his right arm, balancing his weight on his two feet for a few seconds-- they can handle this much, he's tested it before, and soon enough he has a simple, but clean and plain white handkerchief in hand, and holds it out to the man.]

Come now, dry your tears. Breathe deep.

I understand the small play was tragic, but... hmmn. [a bit much, isn't it? though with his new, human ears, nehan can miss some things, such as not understanding the words over his sobbing. oh, he misses his erune ears.] There, there. Shall I tell you a story to distract you?

[he never offers such a thing, especially to a stranger.]

[blooddyd]

[ It's a small miracle that Dimitri even manages to hear the approaching stranger, the voices of the dead drowning out most noise and most sanity. But somehow, he does, and the the line between his brows as he studies the handkerchief isn't disdain or even harsh judgement -- and if anyone should be getting judged here, it most certainly should be Dimitri, though his state of despair leaves little room for immediate critique.

No, what flashes across his face instead is genuine puzzlement. How long has it been since he last cried like this? ]

Thank you. [ There's still hesitation in his tone as he makes for the proffered item, unsure of himself. ] But... To be frank, I'm not sure how much a story could help... or if I should be distracted.

[ He can at least follow Nehan's advice and take deep breaths, try to school himself back into something resembling composure. But the pain and the tears? They never quite stop. ]

My apologies. I don't mean to make light of your kindness, but their faces, their screams... I must not forget.

[torpour]

Naturally, the pain of others is something you shouldn't brush aside, especially if they are close to you. [and he's taking a complete shot in the dark here, but indeed, he thinks the man is crying for his loved ones. it's the only thing that makes some sort of sense.]

After all, if someone hurt my son, I may have to do something drastic, moreso now that I know how much of a failure of a parent I am.

[perhaps that is not something to say to a stranger.]

[blooddyd]

[ Well. It might not be something to say to a stranger, but that effectively draws Dimitri's attention away from his own torment, if the tears don't quite dry off. He's always been a much harsher critic on himself than on others. ]

A father who would go to such lengths for the sake of his son could never be a failure of a parent in my eyes. [ Sure, he doesn't know the man's circumstances, and Dimitri doesn't have any children of his own, but this much he can say with conviction. ] It is a sentiment I can relate to. For those who I cherish, I know I would do whatever it takes to ensure they were happy and safe.

[ Give him a moment to (fruitlessly) wipe the tears off with the back of his hand and try to regain some measure of composure. ]

Perhaps it is not my place to say, and I may not know of your history, but... Were I in your son's shoes, I think it would make me happy to hear that.

i

[pejorative]

They aren't.

[ howdy, neighbor.

Albel, a door down from Dimitri, appears on his own front step with his arms full of something he apparently intends to discard. his comings and goings are swift and silent, and he's hardly the type to do something like introduce himself to anyone who might've happened to end up inhabiting a place near his. still, he can't help but chime in when he sees what Dimitri has in his hands and recognizes them for precisely what they are.

or maybe the more apt thing is that he recognizes Dimitri's reaction for what it is: the same sort of one he had, himself, at first. clearly he's come to a different conclusion in the time since first discovering the photos and portraits that manifested in his home, however—when he drops the armful of things he's carried out onto the ground, it becomes clear they're the pictures from inside the house, now all in a heap, frames and glass panes breaking. ]

They're a trick, obviously. You're better off just getting rid of them.

[ like so: Albel steps down on one of the photographs, the glass crunching under his heel. the one of himself and his father, naturally. the most egregious one of the entire lot. ]

[blooddyd]

[ The voice registers first, but it's the sound of shattering glass that snaps him out of his momentary trance, head swerving to the side with a pair of wide, wide blue fixed on his... neighbor? ]

Ah, I... meant their style, actually. I'm no art expert, but I have never seen such life-like paintings before.

[ And yet, while Dimitri is glad to have them, glad to see these faces all so dear to him with such realistic precision that even his fondest memories could not replicate, the sentiment doesn't seem to extend to his newfound companion.

(It's not his place to pry, and Dimitri is no good at subtlety, but he does at least have enough tact to approach this with some caution.) ]

To call these a trick, however... Have you found something particularly suspicious about them?

[pejorative]

All the more reason not to trust it.

[ not that he's paranoid, mind you—he's seen photographs and holograms, even entire rooms that project the likeness of whole other places before your eyes—a virtual reality. they're just pictures, they can't touch you. even to his primitive mind, overwhelmed by technology well beyond his imaginings, he's at least grasped that much. but this is something entirely different. something absolutely not to be trusted.

after he's thoroughly ground down the glass under his heel, tearing the photo and splintering the wood of the frame, he gives the entire mess an unceremonious kick into the roadway. it doesn't matter if anyone comes along and picks it up later, so long as it's out of his sight. (and no one ever taught him not to litter, either.) ]

They're impossible. No portraits like that ever existed of anyone I ever knew. Someone thinks they're getting in our heads, trying to get us to lower our guards by showing us faces we recognize. Let that happen and you'll be easy prey.

[blooddyd]

[ Dimitri watches the unceremonious destruction of the pictures, his eyebrows neither rising higher nor drooping lower. He's no stranger to thinly veiled displays of rage, and hell knows he's much the same way whenever the brunt of his feelings threaten to spill over the surface, but he is... curious, he supposes. ]

They are not impossible to me. [ Instead of prodding, he offers simple honesty of his own. A show of good faith, so to speak. ] Far more realistic than any portraits I may have ever seen, yes, but my friends and family have surely had their likeness depicted in paintings before.

[ His eyes fall to the frame currently in his hands, the image of his father. It does look a lot more... casual than one might expect of a royal portrait, almost as if he had been caught by surprise. It's... odd, yes, but possible. ]

Regardless, you are correct. No matter how much joy they may bring, we cannot afford to lower our guards in enemy territory. There are far too many answers that we have yet to seek out, though rest assured, I have no intention of idling by until I find the path back home.

[pejorative]

Lucky them.

[ his tone is so dry, it's hard to say if there's any part of him that might actually mean that or not. it's hard to tell by his expression, either, mostly because it's twisted in somewhat grim consternation as he picks one of the photographs he'd dropped and throws it overhead, as hard as he possibly can. it's a pretty good pitch, honestly. right over the fence across the street and into some other person's yard. ]

You could've fooled me, sitting and gawking at it like that. It won't help. They're not here, and they never will be.

[ from his vantage point, Albel can make out only a little of the picture Dimitri has in his hand. he doesn't bother to hide the fact that he looks, head cocked slightly to one side, albeit only for a brief moment. long enough to see that the figure in the portrait has similar features to the man in the flesh. the assumption, then, that it's probably a parent provokes a bitter little sound as he looks away again. ]

Any maggot that would bring people to a place and play at showing them a happy home has more than a fight in mind for them. We need to find them before they come looking for us.

[ and yet here he is, essentially bitching about wasting time on the pictures while he... wastes time on the pictures. in a completely different way, but still. ]

2-b.

[accredit]

[ honestly, the whole play thing didn't interest him very much. it isn't that he didn't have an appreciation in the arts as that in itself would have been an insult to his own culture, but that it sort of reminded him os shakespeare and all his drama. it isn't that he didn't like the guy, either, it's just as a warrior, the level of respect he had for it was just different. so he approaches the play with the same reservations...

except, hm. not bad, not good, but it definitely does leave a weird almost eerie sensation? it's why he does study it more than once. but, while he's in the midst of trying to piece out what the hell he just witnessed, he hear a sob break out??

there's obvious confusion on his face, before an almost uneasy smile back. ] Uh, you okay? [ wait, obviously not?? after a pause, he clears his throat. ]

Should I lend you a shoulder?

[blooddyd]

[ Does he look like he's okay, buddy.

The voice registers slow, almost entirely drowned out by a chorus only he can hear, chanting without end: avenge us! Avenge us! When it does, it's only the second time, and even still his own voice struggles to make coherent sound, any attempts choked out and wet. ]

Why-- [ It's the first word that comes out, and not really meant at the man's offer. ] Why will it not stop?

[ It's hard to say what exactly Dimitri means; not the play, at least, as his act of atrocity has all but silenced it for this session. Is it the tears he never fully cried? The memories never will never quit haunting him? Both? ]

Those puppets, that play... [ With his inhuman strength gone, at least the grip on his forehead won't be so tight it'll risk crushing his skull. ] It was... the same. The same as my father and that woman...

[accredit]

[ sometimes, people look worse than they are??

or so he might have argued, but he swiftly gets the impression that's definitely not the case with this guy. there's no denying this whole farce was eerie, weird, and completely off-beat, but, he wonders if its effects on everyone had differed. perhaps, due to continued exposure? perhaps, something completely random or triggered when certain conditions were met? the speculations were basically endless...

even amongst battles with other servants, it's undeniable that certain cards need to be played on the field— a constant game of chess; one of actions and reactions. but, instead of pondering on the how, the result and "fix" here was probably more important.

hence, he shakes off the nerves. ] You're saying the play was similar to what you've been through? [ "that's rough, buddy..."

but, noticing the tight grip, he does automatically reach out, if just to secure the man's wrist in his own, as if to remind him of the potential harm he could do onto himself. ]

You want to talk about it?