🏝️ dulces sueños group excursion! 🏝️

[hearthwarming]

🏝️ who: intrepid adventurers (vacationers?) and more!
🏝️ what: ori organized (origanized?) a group trip to the resort! mass memshare ensues.
🏝️ when: fall 9-10
🏝️ where: dulces sueños resort
🏝️ warnings: threads will be marked as needed for memshares.

[ Hopefully everyone had fun on the Arco Lunar! The morning after the boat departs from the docks, a letter arrives to your mailbox: ]

Hello, intrepid adventurer!

I am excited to have you along for a group excursion to the mysterious new island! In two days' time, let us gather in the town square and set off from there! Please be prepared to stay the night. It will be so fulfilling and memorable for everyone to spend a night on an adventure together!

If you have any questions or concerns, please come find me at my flower shop in town or at the forest farm where I live!

Sincerely,
Oriphi

[ If she accidentally delivered it to a few wrong mailboxes, then... Oops!

On the promised day, once everyone (and likely a few surprise tag-alongs) has gathered or been gathered, Ori distributes little paper bags of snacks to everyone. Inside are cookies, oat snacks, and a freshly-picked apple from her and M-21's orchard. Do with them as you please... Just don't let her catch you throwing it into the sea or something. 🥺 ]

Alright. I think we should head out, then! Thanks for coming along, everyone! I hope it'll be a great time. Oh, and please don't forget to drink plenty of water and use this incredible ointment I discovered on this island! It's called "sunscreen!" Tieflings don't really get sunburnt, but you should use it!

[ And with that our intrepid adventurers set off to the mysterious, dangerous, unknowable... resort island! ]

( This is the ill-fated mass extinction memshare event. Please refer to the event for details on the resort and the plotting post for any specific details for characters' memshares! There are toplevels for each area of the resort (and for the memshare). Enjoy! )

Comments

[passthrough]

[It's the start of summer.

You're tucked away in a building that feels just as much as home as anything else. The humidity is low, the surroundings carefully packed and managed. You lie on one of the shelves, resting, perfectly content for the moment.

Occasionally you can hear the sounds from outside. The rev of strange motors, the murmering of voices, the passing of clouds or birds overhead, obstructing the few cracks of light that poke in only to flick away. There's tensions in the tones lately. Rumbling that can be heard like thunder in the distance, when all the tones fall silent in mourning.

You know the sounds of war. It feels... sad, to not be a part of it. But you know it won't happen any longer.

You have to stay. They'll come to take care of you. It will be okay.

...

It is 8pm.

You have limited mobility to explore 3 items in your space as the sun goes down (or you can choose to just sit still and contemplate life, too), but you cannot open the doors.

What will you do?]

[graftage]

[......]


[Are these feelings...his? Its hard to say. He's trying to get his thoughts together, taking everything in. This feels like a bizarre dream. It doesn't feel like his dream, either. What is this..?]

[After a moment, he tries his best to move off of the shelf at first. Can he get off? Because if he can, his first thing will be...the shelves. How was he put up here?]

[passthrough]

[You can get off the shelves! It feels a little disjointed, like your body is falling asleep. You're not very high up. This makes perfect sense to you. To be high up would be difficult if you ever had to leave. You're awfully heavy.

The shelves are abundant and filled with many, many things! Including your own body! There you are, sleeping on the shelf. To Steinbeck, this will appear just as his normal body as he remembers it.

It's hard to tell how you ended up there, but you don't feel alarmed. You've been here for a while.]

[graftage]

...Huh.

[WHY IS HE. THERE. AND WHY IS HE. ALSO HERE.]

[His momentary confusion gets patted down into simple acceptance, before he shrugs, glancing around - he'll be a snoop and look around to see if there's anything like a dresser or a closet he can look around in.]

[passthrough]

[There is some furniture, though it is sparse. Most of it looks aged and in varying states of care for the finery and preservation, though all are carefully covered to protect from dust and moisture.

You find a couple items with drawers and start searching through. It's a little odd, since you don't seem to be able to touch anything. But you're still able to tell that, if there was anything left in these furniture pieces, it's been long since moved to the shelves.

You can easily spot Japanese kanji dyed into the wood with inks or seared on by heat. Names of craftsman, locations of their business, and years. Much of this is old - you see dates ranging from 1400 to 1800 in the furniture.

This doesn't surprise you. Everything here is old.

Including you.]

[graftage]

[Weird feeling, being old. Or at least feeling it. It feels foreign to him - he hasn't lived so many years, has he?]

Mm. Feels like a museum.

[Time to look down at the floor - no rugs or anything right?]

[passthrough]

[No rugs! The floor is wooden and well-made, but nothing beautiful. Now that you look, the walls are rather bare and plain as well. You can sense the waft of charcoal from the walls, the floors, though to describe it as a "scent" feels wrong somehow.. This area doesn't seem to be made for viewing by a regular person... but it's kept remarkably clean, nonetheless.

Time flies in the eye of something ancient.

It is 9pm. It's rather dark, but you don't mind. You can still, at least for now, explore freely.]

[graftage]

...Someone preparing for a fire?

[That's his first inclination, anyways, recalling of cold nights out on his own, cold nights with Steinbeck, warm times long gone with friends and family.]

[Hm. He'll actually see if there's any windows, perhaps, or areas where light comes in. Barring that, he may check out the doors.]

[passthrough]

[You ask yourself a question, and receive an answer in response. Of course the charcoal is there, you say to yourself. Everything in here might decay to moisture otherwise.

There are no accessible windows in this room - a shame for you, but you can understand why. The sun would harm others in here, wouldn't it?

However, looking up will reveal faint glimpses of moonlight from the night sky. The spaces from the roof are miniscule, and there is patching to catch the rain and redirect it. The roof is probably getting old.

You see shadows pass over the light in sporadic waves. Clouds, perhaps.... It doesn't hold the frenzy of birds.]

[graftage]

Right. Of course.

[Of course the charcoal is for that! Silly him.]

[He frowns slightly at the shadows, but given that there's no hurried movements, it eases him - he settles back, gaze again casting over the room, before turning back to the shelves.]

[Is there anything else besides his body?]

[passthrough]

[There sure are!

The shelves line most of the walls not occupied by furniture, as well as much of the central space. Taking a look over all of them thoroughly might take some time.

You start where your body is laying. You look cozy, as you always are. They take good care of you.

The bottom shelves right below you are all supplies- oils, cloths, powders. The rest on your end of the room is occupied by long slim boxes, sheaths of various sizes, and display stands that hold weapons and blades of various sizes and ages.

Everything has been carefully preserved. Some that are reduced to only the blade have various kanji carved on the tang.]

[graftage]

[There he is! Hi, him!]

[Lots of weapons here. A weapon storage? Perhaps. He's from the modern era, and storing weapons like this only makes him think of whatever guns his family had stored up in a shed. Ability users themselves barely used weapons. Fitzgerald had no need of them.]

[The blades are interesting, though. He squints at the kanji, trying to understand with what Japanese knowledge he has (casual, conversational, nowhere near literary). If not that, he'll see what's up with the supplies, and if there's anything he can take or physically touch.]

Not me realizing my times were off by two hours.... o well we committed now

[passthrough]

[It's a good thing the you who you apparently are has no problem with it, because there is no conversational Japanese in site on these blades! You know these are identifiers. Names of blacksmiths or owners, cities of forging or great battle, and sometimes dates. Some blades are undated. Some range all the way back to the 8th century.

You give a bow on reflex to the older ones.

The mon of three hollyhock leaves stamped to some of the boxes is familiar enough. You've been with this family for as long as you can remember, after all.

You will not be able to touch any of the supplies. It's probably for the best. You know the powder hurts in large amounts, and though the oil feels nice, it's been limited lately due to rationing. Best to leave it to the servants.

Time flies in the eye of something ancient.

It is 10pm. It sounds like there is some commotion outside the doors... but you don't pay it much mind. It's not like you're going anywhere.]

[graftage]

[Wow, older ones...he bows. This doesn't feel weird. A little weird how it doesn't feel weird.]

Oh, Tokugawa, huh. [He just knows that, somehow. He purses his lips at the supplies, but nods in understanding (rationing is real, he knows, that hurts in a way more familiar than this memory). Best to leave it alone.]

[...Sound outside the doors. He puts his hands in his pockets and leans back on his heels to look back at them. Well, maybe they're just having an argument?]

[passthrough]

[The voices are too distant to understand in detail. But you've been around the block long enough to know a thing or two.

It's the muffled tones of panic.

Your lips thin. War is out there, beyond the walls. Maybe something's happened you weren't aware of. You'll be safe here. But...

There's got to be something around here to give you more context. Documents, newspapers, medallions... something.]

[graftage]

...

[His eyebrows furrow. Panicked over...what? What is happening out there?]

[His eyes quickly scour the walls, the shelves. What...is this place, again? What is this time? Why is he here, at this time? Everything made sense, but...]

[But......]

[passthrough]

[It's a storehouse, from the looks of it. You've been here for a while.

The ţ̶̭̱̩́̂̈́̽͑̅̎̂͌͘͝i̶̡̨̻̮̰͓̻̖̜̰̰͚͈̫̱̒̈́̿̌͑͜m̵̡̨̥̣̲̱̠̥̠̘̻̈́̒͗̀̀̾̿͋͜͜͝ȩ̷̧̧̧̨̝͎̳̫̦̳͙̘͚͚̫̀̃͒̾̈̀̓͊̄̒̈́̔̒̈̑



It scrapes at the back of your mind like nails on a chalkboard. You can't remember. Why?

...

There are document boxes on the wall opposite you. Newspapers wrapped up for records, carefully preserved books, poetry, art, letters, government documents.]

[graftage]

...

[He walks over to them, his feet feeling heavy. His mind feels heavier. What does he need to remember? Why is it...important to remember?]

[He reaches forward to start to pore through the newspapers, documents, anything he can reach.]

[passthrough]

[y̵̧̢̡̫̰̺̣̰̭̜̠̗̠̟̗̪̲͋̈́̈̐͊͌͑̊o̵̞͈̗̙̩̝͇̥͌́͂̋͊̽̔͜͠͝ư̶̜̭͙̬̹̯̩͉͇̻̩̟͕̜̜̂̽́͗̀̉̑̑̕ͅͅ ̷͇̤̀̄̃͂c̸̢͚̫̘͖̗͓̻͖̺̟̘̪̮̓̀̇͊̓̓́̔̏͒̂͝a̵̢̡̮̖̻̱̥̱̿̒͜n̴̹͌̽̅̆͆̍͝'̴̤̦͙̥̱͓͔̝̺̣͖̗̘̓̑́̿͊̐͑͐͂͑̏̎͋͂̅͐̈́t̵̗͐̉̊̀̌̕͝͠ ̸͔͕͎̭͑̊͒̏͝r̴̨̨̛̩̺̲̗͎͉̻̰̼͔̩̮͔̙͍̐̃̍è̷͚͉͈̣̖̇́͋̄m̶̬̠͆̋̽̋͋͌̀͊͘͘͘͜͝ę̵̭͖͕͙̳̙̼̲͎̥̩̗͑̍͜m̷̨̻̮̳͎̩̻̥̟͙͖̪̼̬̿̾̊̂̌͂̀̈̊͛͊̂͠͠͝b̸̟̹̞̭̦͖̺̞͉̙̣̣̗̤̗̞́̌̓̓͛ę̵̤̼̳̜͙̞̼̟͓̮̀̐̊͂̄͑̾͜͝͠r̵̢͖̩̞͔̼͎̼̺̙͇̓͊̽͗̓̅͘͝




Though you cannot touch anything, you can skim over plenty. The newest ones have the mon stamped, the name of Matsudaira - one of the names of the Tokugawa branches. Dates of 1931, 1938, 1942. Talks of the economy, of Manchuria, the Pacific War, of airplanes, of military.

The most recent newspaper is easily read. Tokyo, May 1945.

The world is at war. The papers warn of the ą̶̣̫̲̱͉̬͎̼͎͕͙͈̒i̴̫̳̪̠̥̗͇̦̠̰̫̝̲͓̪͊͑̈́̍̀͑̋̇́͜͠͝r̴̢̧̹̗̥̮̩̩͉̤̺̣͂́ ̵̣̣̜̖̠̦̫͎̼͑̏̀̽̒̉̈́̈́́̓̕͝r̶̨̨̡̞̟̭͈̝̤̱̺̓͑̽̇̅̈́̅́̈̌̑͋͝a̴̢̡̼͍̲͐͝ǐ̴̘̙͓̫̋̈́̕d̵̡͓̰̰̲͇͇̦̤̾́̓̈̏̈́̑͌̋͝s̴̢̙̻̥͈̤̤̲̩͖͍̱͎̮͚̀̎͒̀̑̀̐̀͘̚͝͝͝ͅ]

[graftage]

Is it...

[War time?]

[Panic starts to settle in like a coursing wave through his body, goosebumps prickling.]

Hey, it can't be...happening...? Right here? Right now...?

[passthrough]

[Worry settles over you, an unfamiliar sensation. You've never felt fear before.

But it's fine. It's fine. They've always kept you safe.

...

...

It's 11pm.

Someone's rustling for keys at the door. The moonlight hurts your eyes. It's a servant, one you know well. He's frantic, searching the shelves.

His eyes settle on you - the you on the shelf. He bows low to the ground, his voice thin. "I'm sorry... I'm so sorry."

You're snapped right back to your body with a jolt as the servant bodily grabs you by the arm, shoving you off the shelf and out the doors. You can't fight him off - it is as though your limbs refuse to obey.

It's dark. The castle of your family looms overhead, overwhelming in the shade of the night.

Where are you going at such an hour? Why?]

[graftage]

Uh...hey! Hey!

[This is alarming. He feels jolted, pulled away from the previous calm, made to do something against his will. Steinbeck tries to struggle, but his body won't listen. When has it ever done that?]

[His eyes look over the castle, dark like a void in the night sky, and he protests, tugging at the grip.]

Put me down! What the hell-! Where are we going?!

[passthrough]

[He doesn't even flinch. Is he ignoring you? Can he even hear you? You jostle in his grasp, and he lets out a swear under his breath, simply readjusting his grip and continuing on.

"This is for your own good. Please forgive me."

He pulls and pulls and pulls until you can see the dark shape of something on the castle grounds. A pit, hastily dug, shovel still fresh. You're headed right for it.

The servant doesn't even hesitate. You're dropped right in with a thud. You hear the sound of the shovel, as dirt begins to cover you. You can't struggle free.

Why? Why? What did you do wrong???]

[graftage]

My own good-!?

[His voice cracks, right as he's dropped into the pit. Steinbeck sputters, before dirt slaps into his face and body. He brushes it off in confusion and shock, only for more to fall on him.]

Stop it! Stop-! [Dirt is getting in his mouth, now, and he's panicking.] You have to-stop?!

Cw: being buried alive(?)

[passthrough]

[They don't stop.

You want to cry for help. You want to beg them, ask what you've done wrong after all this time. You want to go back, go back to what you knew, go back to comfort.

The dirt starts to pack. It's in your eyes, your mouth. It's growing deathly quiet, with the weight of the earth. You can't move. You can't breathe... but you find out quickly that you don't need to. You never needed to.

You hear voices. More than one, far above you. They're arguing. You can't move. You can't move. Does anyone know you're here??]