𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐩𝐡𝐢 🌼 (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
hearthwarming) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
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
no subject
[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?]
no subject
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.]
no subject
[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
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.]
no subject
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?]
no subject
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.]
no subject
[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......]
no subject
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.]
no subject
[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.]
no subject
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]
no subject
[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...?
no subject
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?]
no subject
[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?!
no subject
"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???]
no subject
[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(?)
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??]
no subject
[I wonder if this is how Lovecraft feels.]
[It doesn't stop the panic. In fact, it heightens it - its all surreal, cruel, strange all at once, and buried under dirt as he is, it makes his body tense and tight with fear.]
[He hears the voices. He tries to move. He knows he can't.]
1/2
The arguing increases, goes on for a while.
You hear the dirt move above you, the careful dig of the spade trying not to hit you. A touch drifts against your leg, and they start using their hands, throwing dirt to the side, trying their best to free you.
It's not the same servant. You can hear him, far above, being reprimanded, even as the new servant - one of the old ones, one of the ones you've known for eons - carefully pries you free.
"Easy. Easy does it. You're still in one piece...?"
These are familiar hands. Familiar touches. This will be safe. They're washing you down, the oil is brought out and you feel nothing but comfort as it's used against your skin.
"--it's a national treasure, do you realize what that means? Do you realize how long it's been with this family, and you go and treat it like this-- no, I do NOT care how concerned you were, Matsudaira-sama would have never--"
The reprimand is foggy, lost in the back. You don't mind. You're safe. You're being respectfully led back to the storehouse. Clean. Preserved. You're safe. You don't need to be in the earth yet.
"There we are. You'll stay with us much longer yet." It's a grizzled comment, as you're laid right back to the comfortable position you had been resting before.
Surely you can rest now, right...]
2/3
You rest.
You notice the passing of birds overhead in the moonlight beyond the roof.
Strange. It's so late at night for birds. There's so many.
...
You hear thunder. First distant, then growing. The sound of machines far, far overhead.
The low wail of a siren cuts through the night. The thunder... the explosions... cut it off.
You'll be okay. You'll be okay. You'll be--]
3/3 CW: bombing, fire, body horror beyond this point
You hear the sound of wood and metal and stone crumbling around you, folding out and over. The sky quickly vanishes from sight. The thundering explosions don't stop. The rocking of the ground does not stop.
Where it once was dark is now red.
Your shelving has been destroyed. You're caught in the rubble, discarded on the floor with the stones.
The smoke is heavy. It's getting so hot. The red builds.
Can't you call for help?? They love you, right? They'll save you, right???]
no subject
[He has been saved, after all. There's relief here. Going back where he belongs, hand-held by those who understand. Not ones who will bury him, as if he's trash, as if he should be tossed away. He's laid back, and he feels overwhelming peace. because he can rest, he can rest, he just closes his eyes, and rests, and...]
[Something is wrong. He wakes up to it, like an alarm bell ringing in his core. And then that bells turns into a real sound, thunder. A siren, now. His body stiffens. Ah, its just good old fear, that's all, it shouldn't be close, and-]
[No. It's...]
[It's close.]
[It's here.]
[Steinbeck feels his whole world lurching before him, the comfortable surroundings destroyed, his vision filled. He chokes out a cry, fear now grasping him like a child would onto a doll. He's never felt like this.]
Please, ah, someone...someone please help...?
[His voice is barely there. Maybe its not there at all, among the debris, terrified with eyes cast all over for any sign, any movement, anything, anything-!]
Anyone, please-?!
no subject
The smoke thickens. The rumblings don't stop, wailings of far off voices barely heard. It burns, burns, burns, and the rubble shifts as the roof fully caves, piling down harder on stone and wood and flame and charcoal with a resounding crash. The fire is stoked by the open night. The flames grow higher.
It's so hot. It's so hot. You've never felt so hot in your life.
Sweat doesn't come to relieve you. The flames lap at you, starting to singe and burn.
Where are they? They tried so hard for you, didn't they? They treasured you. They treasured you.
Where are they? What's happened?
It's so hot. It's so hot. You don't think it can get any hotter... and yet it does.
You can taste the sensation deep in your core now. The maw of the blaze, blackening you, scarring you...
It's growing hard to think. All you can hear is the roar and the thunder, all you can see is red, and all you can feel is the burn, not outward, but inward, as though your insides are starting to boil.
You feel something start to soften. To drip, from the lines of your face. It's not sweat. You don't sweat.]
cw: descriptions of body horror
[What is this? This fire that burns, that heats his body, that sinks in deep and never lets go...? Steinbeck writhes, attempting to move. He has to move. Like a sprout attempting to stretch its roots, he tries, he does his best, but plants were never any good with fire, after all.]
[It feels like his organs are melting, one by one, into a burning hot core that can't go anywhere except burn him from the inside out. Steinbeck can't even scream. He can only stare upwards, shuddering as it feels like his skin is starting to slide down his own face. This feels different from the growth of roots within his veins, stretching through muscle and nerve. There's no growth here.]
[Just destruction.]
cw: descriptions of body horror
And you start to melt.
It's agony. You want to open your mouth, to scream. But you have no voice, no lungs. The weight of your limbs lose their give, and you lay prone.
You can see the shape of your hand, pitting and hollowing out, turning bright red, then white, a slow and painful puddling to the floor. It smells of molten metal. It tastes of molten metal.
You're supposed to be metal. You always have been.
But the more of you drips away, the more your mind starts to slip with a rising, ugly rush of static in your ears. You're... not you, anymore, are you? You're pooling over the floor. You're not sure how much of your own face is left... you don't have a way to check.
The static increases.
"I-It's a dream. It's a dream. It's just a dream."
It's not Steinbeck's voice, but still one that echoes familiar, weary and panicked and heated with agony.
"Snap out of it... S-Snap out of it! Get a hold of yourself!"
The static grows deafening.
"It's just a dream!"
Your inscription is melting from your tang. Your name. Your name.
What is your name?
What... was... your name?]
no subject
[He...can't-]
[He.........................he................................]
[Everything is melting.]
[What will be left of him, but a puddle, burned up forever?]
[He stirs at the sound of the voice, but there's not much to stir. His body feels like its just nothing at this point, useless metal, unmoving, brain melting, face melting-.]
H...
[A dream....?]
My.......
[Name, name, what is a name, what belongs to a name, the name of....]
Stein...Steinbeck..............?
(no subject)