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crescentview2023-02-07 08:20 pm
hearthwarming) wrote in crescentview2023-02-07 08:20 pm
🏝️ dulces sueños group excursion! 🏝️
🏝️ 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.
( This is the ill-fated massextinction 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! )
🏝️ 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
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I'll be writing up ~bespoke memories~ for those who happen to wander in here. By default I'll stick to low-key situations, so please specify if you want something more emotionally intense. These can be positive or negative.
Please also specify if you'd like third person (the visitor as a separate entity in the memory) or first person (the visitor taking Trahearne's place in the memory); passive (simply watching things unfold, can be a short story-esque situation) or interactive (have a chance to change things in the memory).
If you give no specification, I will pick randomly and assume you are okay with whatever.
Some potential warnings to watch out for: racism, prejudice, mind control/voices in head, losing sense of self, war, zombies, just lots of anxiety (I mean look at him).
You're welcome to hit up my plotting comment if you'd like something specific. But if we've already talked about something in particular, or I've mentioned having something prepared for you already, too bad smile ))
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Accompanied by the sound of fireworks, the flashing of brilliant lights, the smell of gunpowder and ale and the confetti and the cheer and laughter is the sight of Syrlya's face, beaming up at you.
You've felt the echo of what churns in your chest, in this very moment, long ago--pride, joy, affection, love. It tugs painfully at your chest, yet you smile.
Words slip from your mouth outside of your will: ]
I know you're probably tired of hearing this—especially from me—but thank you, Commander. We've come a long way and have a long way to go, but for now, this is a well-deserved respite.
[ You watch yourself reply, expecting the words that lilt from your mouth. It must hurt knowing you have never produced as much joy in your tone since this very moment.
"I agree. And we'll deal with the other dragons the same way: together."
And off your younger self goes, whirling on your heel, bounding away to enjoy the festivities. As you rightly should—you've earned it.
There comes another clench, one you never felt the echoes of before. It hurts, but it's warm, it makes you feel lighter, and it naturally draws a smile to your face. It is powerful, and hard to contain.
It does not go unnoticed.
"Marshal?"
There comes a voice beside you. It is the sapling who dreamt of your blade, staring up at you wide-eyed and bewildered. ]
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The understanding comes to him all at once. The celebration, the speech, him (bandaged and a little limping but smiling with such joy). He knows this moment, and it puts a painful, tight heartache in him to stand in what was a simpler, happier time. Before they lost so many more of their friends. Before saving the world got so complicated.
He's about to go find Destiny's Edge, but Ridhais' voice stops him. He turns to look down at her, his own bewilderment only momentary. He wished he'd paid more attention to her at the time.]
Hello, Ridhais. [He smiles.] What is it?
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The gesture does not seem directed towards you. It is a reaction to what she felt.
"What was that? Was that for..." She glances out to the crowd, to where your younger self vanished, then back up at you. "...For the commander?" ]
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Ridhais only stares for a moment before looking down at the hand on her chest, then back up at her marshal.
"--It's nothing. Forgive me, Marshal. I must have imagined it."
Play dumb seems to have worked. ]
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He moves Ridhais a pat on the shoulder.] Go on and enjoy the festivities, Ridhais. You've earned this celebration as much as anyone.
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"Yes, sir." She salutes him before wandering off into the crowd, leaving you alone.
The party is yours. ]
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He goes first to find Destiny's Edge. Then the leaders and representatives of the order. He's certainly being more gregarious than Trahearne is, but in a dream does that really matter? He can always blame it on the drink. The mood. Anything.
But there are faces here that has since left them and he... wants to see them again. Wants to recommit to memory who they were when they were alive. Wants to hold on, just a little longer, to the friends and mentors he's lost over the years.]
gw2 spoilers for the baby crowd
It is the first time in many years that all five of them stand together, not at each other's throats. They seem to be enjoying each other's company, in fact. Genial conversation flows among them. Though perhaps the elated atmosphere and drink help, it is a sign they have smoothed over the rifts that once tore them apart.
And it is probably the last time they all stand together like this.
Caithe notices you first, of course. She turns--green, as she once was--and delights when she sees you.
"Trahearne!" she waves you over. "We did it--Zhaitan is finished. As is my Wyld Hunt." ]
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His gaze wanders a bit, trying to spot Eir.] This is a truly joyous day for Tyria.
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"You've proven yourself to be an excellent leader, Marshal." She nods, as though approving her own sentiment. "And that commander of yours, too."
Another voice pipes up--it's Logan. "Without your leadership and teamwork, I doubt any of this would have been possible."
"Yeah," comes the begrudgingly agreeing growl from the charr. "And I doubt all five of us would be standing here without him."
It is Zojja's turn to speak. "Chances of our reunion on good terms would be near zero otherwise. Thus making it even less likely any of this would come to pass." She pauses to scan the crowd, best an asura can. "We owe him." ]
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[If only things could have stayed this simple.]
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"Hear, hear!" Logan lifts his glass in turn, and the rest of Destiny's Edge follows suit with a cheer.
The cheer ripples through the crowd; those around you likely don't know what exactly the cheer is for, but does it matter at this point? Zhaitan has been brought down. Everything deserves to be celebrated.
The party still rages on, faces once lost mingle in the crowd. If there is anyone else you wish to see again, now is your chance. ]
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It's clear he sits on the wrong side of the desk--he's not the one in charge. Before him sits a charr, a ferocious feline-like individual, huge horns curling upwards through a tarnished helmet, his teeth bared in a snarl as he stares you down.
Flanking him on either side, back towards the wall, is a man and an unusually large and tall human-looking woman. They both wear similar gold armor. And hanging on the wall behind all of them is a banner featuring a lion's face and nautical imagery.
Outside the window is a bright sunny day. Rays of the sun cast over over a city comprised of a mishmash of ships, which have been resourcefully converted into usable buildings. It smells strongly of the sea, seabirds a common punctuation over the hustle and bustle of the crowded city. ]
You want to go to Orr.
[ The charr growls at him, his voice shaking every fiber of your being. The word Orr drips with disdain, with mockery. This officer is clearly not having anything you're saying.
Orr--that's right. You feel it in your mind, the call of the Wyld Hunt. It's an irresistible urge that draws you to the forsaken land, because it is your life mission to cleanse it of its corruption. You have never been--you have only left the Grove for the first time a few days ago, after all. But this is turning out to be more difficult than you anticipate. The world beyond Mother's boughs is...not kind.
Especially not this charr. He growls again: ]
The talking bush wants to go to Orr. You've got to be shittin' me.
[ The three look at you expectantly. Well? ]
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It is quiet.
The stale air is filled with dust, with the faint scent of parchment and earth and stone. Walls extend ever upward, embedded with bookcases all the way up, all around you. There is a silent shuffling of feet on stone, of rustling papers, of the quiet murmur of scholars exchanging and discussing information. You sit in the Priory's special collections, far beneath the earth, a paradise for scholars like yourself, who seek specialized knowledge for specialized tasks.
Before you on your table is a modest pile of books, neatly arranged by topic, era of history. One sits open before you alongside your own personal notebook. The open page of your notebook is crammed with notes, dates, people names, properties of magic, haphazardly drawn diagrams. It seems a jumble, especially if you have never seen any of these words before, but somehow, in the back of your mind, you understand what it means. They are nuggets of information that you think, perhaps, will eventually slot in somewhere within the web of knowledge you have accumulated, perhaps provide you the answers you so desperately seek.
One word stands out on the page:
Orr.
There is a call, an irresistible urge in your mind that will always draw you back to the land of Orr. It is your Wyld Hunt--the purpose you were given in life the moment you emerged from the Mother Tree--to heal this land. Long has the Elder Undead Dragon's corruption plagued it; it is seeped so deep into the land's pulse that the rot may as well be a part of its very lifeblood. Orr has been a dead, forsaken land for as long as living memory serves--how are you, the eldest of a race that is scarcely a decade old, supposed to fight something so ancient, so steeped in history?
Yet on the days you are not in Orr itself, you are doing what you can to put together as much information as possible so you might know where to even begin.
It is a futile effort. Logically, you understand this. But your Mother-given compulses cannot be ignored.
You are not the only one who thinks this.
"...back again looking for information on Orr and Zhaitan."
"Ugh. Again? Doesn't he understand how he sounds when he talks about this stuff? He can come back as many times as he likes, he's not going to get anywhere."
"Who is this?"
"You haven't seen him? The sylvari--he's all green. It's kind of eerie watching him move around. He's like a walking houseplant."
"Yeah, and he kind of smells. He creeps me out."
"That must be the Orr on him. I can't believe he actually willingly goes there. He can't be sane."
"He says it's his Wyld Hunt. Whatever that means."
"I think it means he hears voices in his head."
They speak of you. It is not the first time you have heard these sentiments.
And yet all the same, you sink into your chair. You bow your head behind a stack of books, hoping they don't come this way and see that you are right here, that you heard everything they said. Not that it would change their attitude, however. The people of Tyria have always made it perfectly clear to you that your pursuit is a foolish one.
Even though, naturally, you are unable to disregard your urges.
You hold your breath, listening to their footsteps as they echo through the cavernous halls of the Priory collections. They do not approach you. They do not know you're here. They continue on with their day, unaware of the sting they have left for you in your chest. How full of hope and confidence you were when you first stepped beyond Mother's boughs. How hard could it be? Orr is a cursed land, yes, but all curses can be undone, you simply had to find the correct magic to counter it. But the longer you spend among the horrors of Orr, the longer you spend researching its history and the dragon's corruption, the further your goal seems to slip from you. The more you lay out your facts, the more notebooks like this one you fill with notes and theories, the clearer you understand that it is simply not possible. The more people you interact with, the more you see their confused faces and expressions of disdain, the more you wish you could give up, to give into your despair.
But you cannot.
All you can do is lay a hand, green and faintly luminescing purple--the only sign of the passing time in this underground repository of knowledge; it is almost dawn--over your face for a moment. You have to cleanse Orr. But you cannot. Once you finish your research here you must return to Lion's Arch and personally ask for your chartered ship to Orr. But you don't want to. You have no choice but to crawl through brine-soaked ruins and steep yourself in the oily slick of the dragon's corruption to find a way to undo it. But you wish you did have a choice.
You take a shaky breath, composing yourself. You sit up straight again, spreading your arms over your table and reassessing your notes, the books you have collected. They are a messy map of the path you must take, as much as you wish you could give up. Such is the nature of your life. And it will be, you think, for many, many years to come. ]
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Such a strange thing it is, to find oneself watching the events of another. But to be in the position of some form of study once more. Though the last time had certainly been centuries ago, and does not match up to holding these types of subjects that are before him now...this 'Orr', and 'Zhaitan'.
But the tones of others speaking in disdain isn't dissimilar.
Before the end, it is clear who he is in this memory he's currently intruding.
And though he certainly isn't in a position to say anything to those talking smack, or anyone else for that matter, towards this portion when they're finally gone, he certainly knows it's for the better. He can't have expected Trahearne to waste his energy on something so insignificant with apparently solving a bigger cause before him.
Yet, all the same, he can only wonder if he ever finds the answers he seeks. ]
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[ The words spill from your mouth before any other part of the scene resgisters. Your tone is measured, asking as though for confirmation. You have heard this fact before--that the person with whom you speak will not be joining you--but you want to make sure.
Your disappointment is muffled, stifled beneath everything else.
What is everything else?
The dust that whips through the wind, the arid dryness on the air, punctuated by bursts of cold mid-winter air. The acrid smell of burning metal, of whirring furnaces, of sweat all tickle your nostrils. Soldiers shout in training, engineers bark orders at one another—beyond the walls of your camp, you can hear the distant cries of a battle, waged against an enemy you do not see but know is out there. People of all shapes and sizes run about, dressed in varying uniforms, busy with their jobs. Everyone is occupied. No effort is wasted. Far above you hang the airships on their docks as the engineers prepare them for launch.
And then, there's Syrlya.
He looks up at you, determined. His jaw is set. There's an air of urgency around him. He's come to see you to inform you of his plans, but it is quite evident now that your second in command will not be coming with you.
"I have a mission I need to finish first."
There is no questioning his decision. ]
I understand. [ A breath. ] Marjory Delaqua explained it—the egg. You're right to make it your priority.
[ It is the truth. But perhaps you say this to more to convince yourself.
"Be safe. We'll share a drink and stories when we meet again."
And he turns to leave to attend to his urgent business.
Which leaves—you.
This army is yours. Every soldier here at your command. You know that the lull in this battle is your opportunity to strike back and gain the upper hand. That once the fleet is ready to fly, you will rain hellfire upon the jungle and Tyria will be at peace once again. But the window fast closes, and you know everyone is already working as hard as they can.
You just hope Commander Syrlya returns in time.
A large horned feline clad in armor—an engineer—rushes to you.
"Marshal Trahearne, sir." She salutes you. "We've run the final inspections on the Glory of Tyria and she's ready to fly. We're commencing checks on the rest of the fleet now, but a few still seem to need repairs. I'm afraid those aren't going to be done in time. That'll leave our fleet a few ships down. What should we do?" ]