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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
no subject
It is pretty boring, isn't it? People don't need to accommodate for us like they do for themselves. They don't always expect things to remember... and even if they do, it's not like we feel like they do.
But... at least it means we might have another shot at something else later.
[Upheaval is happening in the government - the shogun, your family, is no longer in leadership. Time moves on.
With care, you are taken to the capital, taken to careful storage in a packed building, tucked away with care along with many, many other items.
It's 1895.
You have existed for three hundred and twenty five years.
And for the next couple decades... you can count on one hand how many times you leave the store room. You know the flash of cameras. The brief sight of Tokyo, full of so many buildings that your heart spins. And back to your bed you go.
It's been a while now. The only changes are when the lights turn on, when the inspectors come in, when the servants gently make the rounds to apply oil and preservatives to all the weapons that lie in careful rest, only to leave you be again.
The spirit lets go of your hand, if only to crawl off the shelf you now occupy with a sigh.
Otegine holds out a hand, meaning to help Owen down.]
... Sorry. I know it's not the glamor you hoped. But you should stretch your legs a little. We're... not going anywhere for a while.
Come on, Owen.
no subject
No. No, humans don't.
[More and more time passes. Over three centuries and it's come to being in a room with just routine inspections, cleanings, everything becoming the same thing day after day. Owen will gladly take Otegine's hand, hopping off the shelf and looking up to meet its eyes.
They've spent so much time together now, condenses though it might seem, and he thinks he understands as best as he can understand.]
We haven't really gone anywhere in the past one hundred years. We've moved cities, but we barely got to see it.
[Not nearly as much as he would have wanted, but what choice did he have in the matter? They have simply been waiting for a time to be useful, and it has yet to come. May never come.]
At least it's clean in here.
no subject
[He carefully helps Owen down from the shelving, his posture staying straight and keeping his gaze easily. Turning back will show the blade of Otegine's spear resting on the shelf where they'd both just been a moment before, carefully preserved and propped up the same as every other weapon present in the room.]
It had better be clean. All of the Matsudaira's precious items stay in here. They say the walls are packed with charcoal, to keep all of us from deteriorating.
[A slow, slow fight against time.
With Owen's hand still carefully held in one of his, the spirit carefully leads the edges of his robes around the ends of the shelving, past furniture and jewelry, boxes full of ancient documents... in one closest to the door is the only visible passage of time, official documents slowly stacking up with stamps of the year. Otegine spares a glance at a few that seem to appear from thin air, the turning of the lights now just a blink of the eye, a routine to be ignored.]
1912. Looks like there's worry of a war with the west.
[A beat, and he leans back to regard Owen with a soft expression. The documents keep adding up. Time does not stop for them, even now.]
You're not... supposed to be here, are you?
[His smile pains a little.]
Sorry. For all of this. I know you get it more than most people would, but... it's still a pretty useless history.
...It's weird, isn't it? How some things just still sit with you, after all this time.
no subject
Of course I'm not supposed to be here, but here I am all the same.
[He watches as the documents continue to appear, but he pays them no mind. A war, huh? Another war that will no doubt find Otegine still tucked away for safekeeping, the blade just another decoration in this room. It's a shame, but after all this time, it's what they can expect.]
Is it weird?
[He cocks his head, regarding Otegine again. The documents pile up, but he doesn't care what the outside or the future hold.]
I've had a lot of people ask me about the past, about what I remember, what I've done, as if it's all something larger then I am, as if it's something to be clung to, because all those things you know and see and forget and remember all make you what you are. When those things are your entire identity, the entire world you've always known... so is it really that strange if the way it makes you feel lingers, even if it's not a feeling that can be understood?
I wouldn't think so, but I also wouldn't let it weigh me down. You didn't get the luxury of choosing your present, though, or your future, so maybe it's a matter of perspective.
no subject
Maybe. Nostalgia is... comfortable, I guess. Anything else is a little beyond what I know. [His free hand lifts to rest against his robes, a gentle grip against his own chest.] A tsukumogami doesn't get to feel that way. We rely on our history. We're... nothing, really, without our history.
For a future... or even for a past... it's always going to be in the hands of someone else.
[The papers keep changing. War is declared. Rations are in place. Some items disappear from the room. War is over. You are none the wiser for the details.]
Nothing's meant to last forever... but... I think it would be nice, to be at peace with it all someday.
Still. I get this feeling sometimes I can't shake.
[Reports start to pile in, and the documents are reshuffled. The economy has collapsed. The military is expanding, conquering their neighbors. You have no part in it.
...
Otegine's expression starts to darken. His grip tightens against Owen's hand.]
...I don't know sometimes. Whether it's more frightening to forget, or...
[To be forgotten.
It's 1935. What do you do with three hundred and fifty five years of memories, of thousands of faces, when you have no way to express it? When all you can do is be?
...
His voice grows quiet. Tight.]
...
I'm sorry.
I don't know if I'll be able to keep my promise to you like this.
no subject
[Owen is someone who has forgotten much and who will be forgotten at some point, he's sure, but it hasn't stopped him from living life how he wanted to. It wasn't something that concerned him much, if he didn't let it - but like he said, he has the luxury to live his life like that. He's not heard of a tsukumogami before, but he has no reason to doubt what Otegine says about what they rely on to simply be. It wouldn't be beyond reason that should this history be erased, what makes Otegine something he can see and talk to might cease to be as well.
He's not going to think about it, but with the way Otegine seems so tense, even after war has come and gone... It's unnerving. He knows more about what's going on then Owen does, and whatever is coming next... it can't be something good. Not if he's concerned about that silly promise in a time like this.
Owen cups Otegine's cheek, hands still cold even in a place like this, and brushes his thumb over the skin. The gesture is more tender then Owen usually is, but the wizard looks more contemplative then concerned.]
It's okay. Promises aren't as black and white as humans like to think - you can try to keep one as best as you can and do everything right, and something may still happen that breaks it. If something to happens to me, will you place the blame on yourself? Even knowing it wasn't your fault?
[His voice is soft, and he pauses for a moment.]
You've done your best, whatever comes next isn't your fault. A broken promise won't mean broken trust.
no subject
Quietly, Otegine lifts his touch to rest against Owen's, a gentle wrap of his fingers. There is no true warmth in return, not like the body that Owen knows. But the presence lingers regardless. The tired resignation of his expression starts to crack, his eyes screwing shut as he leans into the touch.]
I couldn't forgive myself if I didn't try. I have one purpose, and it's to be used to protect. What good am I if I can't manage that?
[What good has he had, in centuries of letting things be? He can't sit and wait and let things be. He can't.
It's 1939. There is talk of another war brewing. You can hear the far off sounds of aircraft.
His voice has dropped low]
I don't want you to suffer. I don't want you to have to be thrown into something else again without your control. I couldn't do anything for anyone I loved in my life.
[It's 1942. You hear thundering noises from time to time, far off rumbling. The papers talk of b̸̜̄̏̓̓͠ỡ̴̧͉̹̙̪̫͍̼̺̳̊͒̄͋̿ͅm̷͍̯̅́̇͋̂́̇͝͝ḃ̸̧̰̱̫̫̜͐̍̋̏͌̇̌̕͜ỉ̵̛̮̥̫̺̰̀̉̉͆̀̀̏̌̉̍̀̚͝͝ͅn̸̦̭̆̿͂̚g̷̡̜̙͈͓̰̥͕̪̖̤͒̽͆̓̀̈́̚s̵̢̧̤̳̱͍̪̗̲̠̤̩͑̉̃̓͑͐̇̾̓̏̅͐͋̿͐͠͝]
Please. Just let me do this. Let me try for you... before I can't anymore.
[His grip starts to loosen. Something akin to static starts to flood into the senses.
Do you let go?]
no subject
[Telling Owen to leave, as things around them get worse… He wants to save Owen, but from what doesn’t he know. He can’t know - he sees the papers, but it means nothing to him. Bombs are beyond what exists in his world, but he’s not oblivious to the noise, to the way the earth shakes…
He doesn’t let go.]
1/??
His grip falls away, just for a moment. But Owen doesn't follow suit, and though the static still remains, its approach is gradual, like the tide of a far off beach.
Otegine doesn't move to push him off. Distress slowly starts to color his body language, his facial features. But eyes of deep brown meet Owen, terrified and apologetic.]
Owen...
I'm so sorry. I can't warn you. I... I can't do anything.
[1943.]
[The brunette's lips thin, hands returning to take up both of Owen's, to press that touch back to his face as though the sensation of him might fight the fear that rises with the volume of the static.]
I wanted more time. I thought we might really have forever. But...
[1944.]
[The static starts to hurt the ears.
The smell of the charcoal around you is comforting. Comforting. Comforting. It's protection. They're removing more items. They never remove you.
Otegine's face stays buried against Owen's hand, trembling, - over three centuries old, and yet in the moment, so much like the childish figure that had met him at the forges.]
I don't want this to be it, Owen. I don't want to be forgotten. I don't want this to be it. I don't want this t--
2/
You are alone. It's the same storehouse. You're still on the shelf. The static is deafening.
w̷͎͇̝͚̼̮̰͈͕̤̿́̊̅̊͆͂̓̋͂̄͋́̒h̵̡̜͓̔̓̀̔͑ỷ̸̨͍͖̻̰͇̙͕̈́̉̂̈́̋̑̔̿̀̍͘͝͝͠ ̷̧̞̳̩̖̳̯̰̮̭̇͜͝ͅç̷̡̬͕̣̭̰̱̳̲̓̾̆̏͘͜ͅa̴̧̧͇͕͍̩̖̜̖̫̪̥̜̦̗͍͒̎̎̀͊̉̀́͒̓́̚͘͜͠n̵̛͉̼̂̽̂̈́̌͑͋̍͊̄̄̐̑̓̇̚'̵̡̻͍̯̭̺̞̠̫̠̊̂̈́́͑ţ̴̫͓͓̼̗͖̹̹͈̮͍̏̈́̽͐̏͊̔́̇͛͋̀̾͝ ̴̟͖̫̖̳̬̭͈̞̼̣̣͊̅́̀ͅy̵̢̨̡̞͙̣̻͙̝̜͊̉̅̽̂̊̐ͅo̶̧̗͗̿̋̀̿̈̿͒͒̎͠͝u̶̧̯̱̍̾̒̎̿ ̸̙͙̖͎̤̳̣̘̳̟͈̑̉͝r̴͕̯̘͎̤̿̋̐̋͌͌͒̇̋̓̄͒̇̕͠ȩ̷̪̟̫̙̫͚̖̎͆͋̓̂́̅̔͊̄̈́m̶̰̖̬͇̱̞̼͖̿̋̍͑̑͑́͜͝e̶̡̙̫͊̒̌ṃ̷̢͖͙͈̟̦̫͕̠̦̫̙̤̠̉́̀̃͜b̵̢̢̢͔͓̲̞̗̲̥͒̾̿̓͠e̶̡̼̯͓̹̙͒̂͌̒̐̔͘͜͠r̸͍̂͑̓̓̓͋͊͊̓̓̄̊͂̇̚]
3/
It's summer. It's evening. Someone has opened the doors. Someone is taking you out. A servant. They're frantic.
You're dragged across the grounds. You're thrown into a pit. They're apologizing, over and over. The dirt feels cold and heavy. For a few moments, buried deep, you feel nothing but confusion and an eerie, icy silence. What's happening? What did you do wrong?
...
Not less than an hour or two later, you can hear the soil being dug up again. The servant is being scolded. How dare they bury a family treasure, an older servant says. How dare they treat it with such disrespect.
The servant babbles. It was by request, they say. The master is worried, they say. But the older servant has none of it.... and it's not as thought you stay long enough to hear the rest of the conversation.
You're whisked back to the storehouse. You're cleaned up, oiled down, checked carefully for damage. You're set back to rest.
You'll be safe. You'll be safe.]
4/
You can hear the wail of the sirens.
You see, through slats in the ceiling, the faint shadow of birds in the light of the moon. You think, for a moment, how odd it is to catch birds in flight this time of evening.
The thundering starts again. It's getting loud. Getting closer. The earth shakes. But you'll be fine. You have to. You--]
5/5 cw for 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. You're still in one piece.
The smoke is heavy. It's getting so hot. The red builds.
You can't call for help. They love you, right? They'll save you, right??? You've been so patient. You're a treasure to them. Won't they come for you?
All you can hear is the sound of the blaze, rising as it eats up the oxygen. The flames start to eat at you. Your core starts to burn. To boil.
The heat only climbs.]
no subject
Is he going to die?
He doesn’t want to let go, he doesn’t want to see what happens, he doesn’t want the suffering that’s coming, he doesn’t want to hear more of that forsaken noise-
He wants to shake the servants, wants to tell them that storage room isn’t safe even if he has no idea of the heat and the red just around the corner, but they won’t hear him. He can’t change this. Beyond that, though, is that he feels too weak to make a noise, the odd feeling of just wanting Otegine to be okay making him feel so much. It hurts, it hurts, his heart has never felt so frail before—
It’s a bright end. A slow end. This one thing is the most familiar part of the experience, even if it’s never felt like this before. How long will it takes before this heat turns to nothing? It will, won’t it? It’s inevitable. No one and nothing can save him from this, not with human means.
Is it the end? Owen knows better then anyone else that death, that being utterly and entirely destroyed, is not always the end. And… it can’t be, not when he has yet to see the Otegine he knows, right? But it’s hard to think of the man who promised to protect him, hard to wonder how that could happen, and harder still to remember the words I thought we might really have forever.]
1/2 cw: body horror descriptions
Your family never comes.
It's so hot. It's so hot. It's so hot.
You bubble from the inside out. The many layers that make you, that took endless hours to create, soften under the relenting heat and start to drip.
You start to melt. Like a sliding of skin from its muscle, muscle from its bone, a slow and agonizing deconstruction.
You can't think. You can't make it stop. But you're still you, for an unbearably long time. Maybe you can still be rescued. Maybe you can be repaired. Even if they have to make you into something new. Please. Maybe. Maybe.
Maybe.
But steel melts away from steel, and with it starts the ripping away of your identity. You burn, white hot, to the last second that you coagulate to nothing but red-hot slag against the floor.
Useless.]
2/2
There's nothing.
It's dark. You're alone. There is no up, no down.
You feel no peace. But you have no memory as to why. You have nothing. You aren't even sure you're you.
...
And yet, time still moves on.
You don't wake up. You don't bounce back. The nothing stretches.
What... can you do?]
no subject
The spear melts, and Owen feels nothing again. It's not as comforting as what he knows, the brief reprieve from pain, sickness, the harsh realities as the world, but in that nothingness it's also not the misery of losing everything. There is no burn. There is no Otegine, no Owen, there is nothing at all.
So Owen waits, to see if there will be an end to the end. How long will it take before there is something again, and not just this empty feeling of something that no longer exists anymore?
He'll wait as long as it takes, because he has nowhere else to go.]
no subject
The void stretches forever. Years and years. Decades fold over into a century, then another, of nothing.
You don't remember what happened. You knew, once. Who you were, what you were. You're not sure that you even are anymore. Because if you were... there would be no reason for this void.
You want to rest. You... have to be able to do that much... right? But something that is nothing can't rest, nor can it be awake.
Time moves. You don't. Maybe this really is all that's left.
...
You hear the distant, sharp pang of metal again metal, a pinpoint of warmth that sits in the expanse of nothing like a fishing lure in the depths of the ocean. It repeats, over and over, like a voice of its own that you can't quite make out.
It's a call. A request. A plea.
You are nothing. It can't be for you. Can it?]
no subject
He waits…
And waits…
It’s been so long. Or has it? It’s hard to say.
Does it matter? Can it matter?
He almost doesn’t notice. His mind drifts until it feels like he’s almost lost himself, too, in this blank space where an existence no longer is, but he hears it. Feels it. Someone is asking for - help? It has to be, because Otegine is a spirit. A spirit born from a beloved treasure and spirits are what anything who can see the value in them would call upon. That has to be what it is, and he won’t accept otherwise.]
If you don’t take this call [he feels so foolish, so small] I’ll make you regret it. It’ll be worse then any promise you could break.
no subject
...
You acknowledge the point of light. A curiosity you aren't aware you still have until the light turns to two, then to eight. The warmth of it spreads, and even though you have nothing left, you still reach out.
The call answers back, the slams of the hammer rattling your ears.
Please fight for us. Please fight for us. Please fight for us.
It's a contract. You're not being forged, not a new life... but summoned. The hammer pounds, and so does a heartbeat you've never had before, a warm and rhythmic rush of blood through--
You're reaching, and you can hear the pound, you can feel it rattle you, you can see the starts of shapes and colors for the first time with eyes you didn't know you could have, a mouth splitting open to part and take in breath. Your head pounds, your chest fills with air, the tips of fingers splitting apart from the hand and forming, a form of autonomy you barely understand as you continue to reach for that point of light.
It hurts. It hurts in a way you've never known before.
A weight manifests behind Owen: a warmth, a body that inhales with new pain as his outstretched hand clasps over the wizards, wrapping a free arm against his waist, pushing them forward, eyes that barely know how to see still keeping locked straight behind short, messy locks of brown that barely start to manifest.]
Don't give up on me.
[You're not entirely what you were. It hurts, so deeply, to be given a human body. And hundreds of years of memories, in a fragile form with an even more fragile heart, pour in like a flood.
You feel like you could crumple from the weight of it. Even Otegine has to press his forehead into Owen's shoulder with a muffled choke at how vibrant and painful it is, to feel.
You remember the red. Your body associates the feelings. The pain, the agony, the sorrow, all in a flashing moment in the back of your head like a brand. It drops in a violent and horrible burst, and just as fast, disappears - a recess in the back of your mind. You know the red. You know it was hot. You... can no longer remember why. A bad dream.
Otegine trembles deeply with an unconcious grip of Owen closer to him. But he does not let go.
They're waiting. You can't give up now.]
no subject
Owen would bet that they want Otegine, specifically, even if he wouldn't voice that to the spear. Not now, not in this moment, when he is overwhelmed by what does not feel anything like coming back to life again. That has always been slow, gentle, a return to sensations he already knew. This is like pouring salt and on an open wound and then grinding it in deep, an electric sensation beyond even the storm Oz calls down with his fury, because even though it is not new to him, it is new to the man in front of him.
He brings his arms up, a laugh behind his teeth. This isn't a laughing manner, but he feels almost hysterical with all of the raw newness that is being reflected on his consciousness, like seeing the sun for the first time after being locked away somewhere dark and hopeless but you never knew what you had been missing. The wizard is still cold to the touch, even here, and he holds Otegine close.]
I'll give you one more chance.
[He'll have to earn more, of course. Owen can be stingy, when he wants to be, but he thinks he's being quite generous in this moment.]
no subject
That's more than enough.
[...
...
It's 2205.
You are... or perhaps, you were... six hundred and twenty five years old.
You've nearly doubled your lifespan, and you remember none of the gaps.
This is temporary. You know it is. So does your new master. Your saniwa. Clad in robes, his face covered, an older human in voice and posture. Your body is a gift from his magic. A gift made of your history.
They need you. History as it stands will crumble without your help.
You promise him your service. Until war is over... you have autonomy. You have the chance to be. And your feelings, your body, the hundreds of years that weigh on your new mind... they keep you separate from your enemy, a never ending of wave of spirits like yourself who exist without the burden of a heart, ruthless and unforgiving.
...
Time won't stop for you. But at least, in this body, with feelings that weigh every memory that stitches you together like a paper doll... maybe the moments won't move so fast.
Maybe you'll find your forever... however long forever can last for something like you. Maybe there can be peace at the end of it.
Maybe you'll truly have one more shot to be useful.
You promised, after all.
...
...
The memory ends. Owen is Owen once more.]