ryslig logs

MOD PLOT: ENDAST

Wed, 31 Jul 2024 16:31:35 GMT

MOD PLOT: ENDAST

HOLD YOUR BREATH AND COUNT TO TEN

(CW: apocalyptic imagery)

Vast caverns and pits scar the earth.

Where there were slimy appendages, gaping maws, and mucous-slick tentacles are now empty holes. Shriveled bits of tissue, some vast, weathered, and blackened, and some small enough to crush underfoot, dot the land. The dead flesh heaves as smaller, more tender pieces of a long-slumbering, celestial abomination emerge, desperately seeking sustenance from the fractured fruits of Ryslig's horrorscape. It wants, it needs, but it is denied.

The Monsters have fought, and they fought well. Hands grasped one another across the aisle. The unspeakable World-Eater has been battered, weakened, held at bay.

The gods look on, one a roiling, curdling mist, the other a conniving youth swathed in sparks. They look on, and one of them splits a broad, guileless smile. They become… inspired.

Sparks meet the damp. Consider this, precious Children: What happens when a plugged-in toaster falls into a filled bathtub? When lightning strikes a lake? When a felled power line hits a puddle?

There are no screams, merely a shallow, soft gasp, snuffed beneath a surge of crackling power. It beams a bright gold, at first, then blue, then white, then a rainbow of iridescent tones. In the combined god-realm, one may hear a pop or a burst. Look up, and witness a spray of dying sparks, like the trailing steam from a firework.

And that is when all falls utterly still.

All.

It feels like the air has been sucked out of a cramped room. But in the dreary, hollow, cracked land of Ryslig, there is no escape from the musty, stifling damp bearing down upon flesh. The remaining tentacles dotting the peninsula simultaneously seize, curl, and retreat. The stinking slime ebbs away, the bottomless pits belch once, hotly, then silence.

The dwindling humans wait, breathless. One hour. Two hours. A full twenty-four.

And slowly, they regain their nerve and reemerge.

The World-Eater is gone. It has been fought, and the pitiable lives walking the scorched earth have won, for whatever that is worth. More wastes. Oppressive silence. Tattered remnants of a society which must rebuild, repopulate, reconcile what is lost with what they have gained and what they must remake. There is much work to be done.

But they've survived. You – Monsters – have survived.

The ruins of Bavan take to the streets and cheer, and a tentative hope kindles in frightened hearts.

Except for a special few. You know who you are, devouts of the Fog god. You can sense something inside you, something too warm to remind you of Her cold, harsh embrace. Something electric.

And you feel an ill-at-ease creeping up on you amongst the whoops and hollers of celebrating humans. The unseated feeling has a name, you realize:

Grief.

WHERE YOU GO, I GO

(CW: apocalyptic imagery, parasites, implied NPC death)

The morning of the 31st has dawned, and the world appears no closer to mending itself. Even without the lashing attacks from the creature below, the crevices loom as ominous as ever, the void within appearing a permanent new feature.

…No. The keen eye will notice it. The void is growing at a slow, steady pace.

The damage done to the land was so severe, the world itself is crumbling from within. It may take a week, it may take a month, it may take years, but the future remains undeniable. Something vital was broken and without it, all that is will cease to be. No one knows what to do, or where to look for guidance. The gods are still silent and absent, either unwilling or unable to answer prayers.

Those who open their laptop as they sip their morning coffee will notice a new post popping up out of nowhere. Some may recognize the username as the one which identifies the Kulen parasites, those little rascals who have been scurrying around the Ryslig peninsula for two weeks, then suddenly vanished a few days ago. What a relief it is, to see a post from them. What have they gotten up to now?

< HOTTERDRAGONMISCHIEFMRNAKIMURAEYES > (click to open message)

seasons greasons

302 288

WE have finished! to go to NOT HERE! WE have built fucking ships! they are right outside the hive!

222 190 175

WE are thankful! for your help! but WE are very shitfucking tired

98 78 69

THE QUEEN is gone. fell into nothing. WE live because QUEEN live! but now no more QUEEN

thank you for teaching US always. WE learn so many great things! that is why WE give you the ships. go to NOT HERE! :)

22 11 1

I dont want to die

Some may want to respond to this chilling post, but they will receive no response. The word of the parasites, however, was true.

Those who head to the hive outside Kulen will find a small collection of ships there, all lined up before a crevice. Or perhaps they're more like submarines. Huge metal containers, their shapes somewhat irregular and clunky. The windows built into these ships are few, and their large shutter doors are open for now. Those who wander inside any one of these ships will find they're actually quite close to the cruise ship the parasites had over half a year ago. There's a rec room with shuffleboard, a kitchen with deep fryers and stoves, and even a detainment cell. Cabins lining long hallways hold all the necessities; beds, wardrobes, bathrooms… It may not all be constructed as well as one would hope, with the occasional wonky table leg or stained pillow, but it'll do in a pinch.

And truly, this is a pinch.

The land shakes beneath your feet. The void hungers, ravenous as the beast that caused it in the first place. It seems unlikely to cease its reach, gobbling up more crumbs of the land as it goes.

What will you do, Monsters? Will you take this opportunity to flee to a place that is Not Here? Will you abandon this world, which has hosted monsters like you for ten years, in pursuit of something new? Is there even anything new to find? What will you eat on these ships, if the hunger sticks with you? (Perhaps you ought to gather up some humans to take with you, just in case?) Those are all important questions to ask.

Those of you who have been searching for an escape from Ryslig may never get another opportunity like this one. The ships have been pre-programmed to seek out a certain escape route, and the big clock in the cockpit is counting down.

You have two hours to decide.

Find your loved ones and discuss your options with them. Quickly now. Will you run, or will you put your faith in the gods? They may return to the limelight to save this world.

WORLDS COLLIDE AND DAYS ARE DARK

The countdown on the ships hits 00:00 and regardless of who made it on board, the shuttered doors slam shut. From this moment on, whether you decide to join the excursion no longer matters. No one may board. No one may leave.

One by one, they move forward, approaching the edge of the crevice until they go over- until they go in, suffering a free fall into the terrifying void below. Those who boarded may fear, in that instant, they've made a terrible mistake. On the other side of those small windows, there isn't even darkness. There is nothing. Such a terrifying absence of matter, these ships do not belong. And yet, they push onward. Seconds turn to minutes and then, quite abruptly, there is existence once more.

It's the Sea of Stars.

Stretching out into infinity is a beautiful view of aquamarine hues, all blending together seamlessly. Countless stars shine within, each one a world waiting to be explored, if only you could reach it. Is one of them yours? Your journey has begun, dear monster, and let's pray that you will make port some day. But beware, for the Sea of Stars is filled with more than just your fleet of ships. Parasitic barnacles which attach themselves to the ship's hull, indescribable gigantic things which cast a shadow as they swim past… And bodies. Soulless husks which drift aimlessly, lost forever in the purgatory between worlds. Those might make a good snack if you could get one aboard.

Those who embarked on this journey did so just in time, though not for the reasons that would've prompted them to set off in the first place. Shortly after the ships dipped into the crevice, the entry to the Sea becomes a mass of static: impassible.

The irreparable world left behind is changing. Cracking apart into little bits, then mending in different places. Nature becomes artificial.

Followers of either god who chose not to flee - who consider Ryslig their home - will feel an overwhelming presence towering over them, leering down on them. Something grander than either Fog or Fourth. Its reach is spreading and it tends to the world, putting things in their 'proper' place once and for all.

The cracks are not closing so much as things are growing inside them. Buildings with brilliantly lit windows and neon detailing sprout from the ravines like crystal clusters. A heavy mist – not quite Fog, but not entirely unlike it – hangs in the air between these skyscrapers, glowing pink and blue and yellow in the artificial light. The technology, the synthetic nature of the world, spreads out from the cracks like infected skin around a wound, turning rock into metal, turning grass into AstroTurf. Some of the plant life become disguised bits of infrastructure; power-lines done up to look like trees. Others are simply holograms of their old selves, almost real but intangible, glowing unnaturally at the edges.

A message goes out over the laptops, but it's also projected onto the sides of the buildings in endlessly scrolling text.

Welcome to New Ryslig
My pets
I hope you like it here
(:
I am Endast
I am the Fog and the Fourth, together
But one of us was stronger
I'm sure you can guess who ;)
You'll have everything
Everything you could possibly want
No more uncontrolled magic making you hurt
No one will hurt at all anymore
Unless you hurt each other
Which is fine (: I'd never stop you from doing what you want
Live freely
You'll still need to eat humans
Sorry
But it's fine
I have it under control

It's better this way
I made it
All
Better

Some of you might remember Elias promising you you won't have to eat humans anymore. Unfortunately, the new combined god won't be able to keep that promise. You're still a monster, and a monster you will remain, exactly as you were at the moment the world changed.

YOU'LL NEVER HAVE MY HEART

(CW: captivity, dehumanization, forced unreality)

One day is much like another. There are no bimonthly fogs, no regular incidents that send everything into chaos.

There's no chaos. There is just this world. Endast's world.

You, a monster, are free. You may do as you like in this misty neon playground: the only other beings are synthetic and Elias's, and easy to replace if broken. The humanoid mannequin-like robots staff the stores, clean the windows, maintain the infrastructure, and repair monsters' messes, if they decide to break anything in their rage. There are less human robots that provide automated services: they'll do your laundry on the spot, or whip up food or alcohol to your specifications that tastes just like you remember.

Eat. Drink. Play. There are so many games to play here, from Pong in one of the many, many arcades to truly immersive virtual reality simulations of every type you can imagine. Be a hero. Solve a mystery. Defend a planet. Or just run a farm and marry one of the villagers. But don't stay in the virtual reality stalls too long, or you just might end up like them.

Who are they, you ask?

They're the humans.

All surviving humans have been corralled and put into an enormous VR machine. In a great, circular tower in the center of Bavan called the Silo that stretches like an uncurled finger towards the dark, stormy sky, the humans are all in pods. They're hooked to the walls in rows and rows and rows, disappearing into the dizzying height above. Robots float among them, tending them, feeding them, watering them. Keeping them alive. Much like the feeding room in the Arcade, each podded human has a visor over their face. What do they see? What lives are they living out?

You can ask them.

You can check them out, if you like. In fact, Endast highly recommends it, as monsters' dietary needs have not changed, and will not change. Pick out a human, or let the artificial receptionist at the front desk select for you, and they will be wheeled out front and revived.

Only one human at a time, now. You must either return this individual, or bring proof of death in the form of a corpse, bone, or other vital organ if you want to get another one. No overfarming them, pet. They're all the humans you've got.

That's the only rule. Trying to break it, or to attack the Silo, will result in immediate electrocution until the monster ceases its attempts. No other laws govern monster behavior: do whatever you want. Fight. Feast. Start a business (for barter; everything else is free). Work on your art. Get trashed in the street. Break the buildings (the robots will have them repaired in a week). Run through Lager Woods among its synthetic grass and robotic wildlife. Leap into the pixelated sea and swim until your limbs give out.

And as for the land which lies beyond the peninsula? That which was once known as the Wastes? If you were to ask your new god, Endast would refer to it as a 'work in progress'. It's raw potential. Yours for the taking. Barren as it still is, the sepia fog which once shrouded it has begun to thin. Over time, it may host civilization once more. Or maybe it'll just host more of Endast's synthetics and faux life. Explore as you like!

Death may result in memory loss, or not: impossible to predict. There's no real consequences besides death for anything, so does anything really matter?

What does it matter?

You're free. You're safe. Bask in what safety has brought you, because there is nothing else but that. The hedonistic pleasures are all at your fingertips, dear monsters.

And if you get bored with that, there's the VR rooms.

OOC INFORMATION

And with that, Ryslig's closed for business! Thank you so much for having fun with us for all these years. We welcome you to continue to play as long as you like: feel free to backdate threads on this post or others, and, of course, start PSLs of your own. We just won't be moderating in an official capacity. As we said in our closure announcement in May, if anyone wants to start a new game that makes use of Ryslig's setting or certain NPCs/mechanics, we encourage them to come to us. We'll be happy to hand over the torch and share our coding/resources/unused ideas.

We wish you all the best for the future, dear monsters!

comments

MOD PLOT: THE WORLD EATER AWAKENS

Sun, 14 Jul 2024 16:45:35 GMT

Posted by: ryslighelpers

MOD PLOT: THE WORLD-EATER AWAKENS

CLASH OF THE GREATS

(CW: main character/NPC death, tentacle monster)

You did this. How?

so what if i did?
are you scared :)

You should be. You will be. You'll pay.

how?
you cant touch me
fair payoff for playing games on your turf
want a consolation cookie?

It won't be me to make you pay. It will be It. Them. Wait. Listen. You're next.

nah
i want to see you squirm
while the world burns
itll be over soon

You before me. You are barely half of what I am… and many eons younger, many weaker… You will witness none of it, when you and your followers suffer and fade, one by one…

A twilight dome rends the bickering apart. A flash of bat wings, an urgent cry. The earth splits. A writhing tentacle, the height and girth of a city skyscraper, lances out of the parted, steaming ground, the stink of raw heat and rotted, wet membranes putrefying the misty air. A harsh thunderclap echoes in the Domain In Between when the tentacle strikes the dome, in that hazy place where the physical plane begins to melt into the Gods' domain, the lines blurred with the World-Eater's violent stirring.

The bickering splutters with a brittle gasp. A silence hangs thick, Mana's long shape hovering in the center, projecting a dim, soft glow. She is the glow of stars, of evening moonlight; she holds herself before them, raven hair loosed, pale arms and long claws seizing for purchase against an impossibly vast, hungry beast.

The Gods watch, silent, save for the breathless whoosh of breeze from the Fog God's parted lips.

Mana's wings flutter. The tentacle unfurls, the earth and its suckers moaning with a sick, wailing want. It rears back, curling, readying.

STOP this at once! Haven't you learnt by my example? You must–

Her voice dies with the second thunderclap, an explosive shatter ringing clear. The twilight dome cracks and falls. A schlorp, sinews and gore and membrane flying; one of the tentacle suckers, its target sighted, sends forth a narrow line, skewering Mana whole.

Her light flickers, the purple-black of her eyes turned pleadingly toward the Fog…

And it is the last that is ever seen of Mana, as she disappears down into the cracked earth. The Physical plane sucks all that destruction, and all that remains of her, far, far, far below. Poof. Gone.

The Fog's grieving howls reverberate into the World's twisted core.

THINGS FALL APART

(CW: earthquake disaster, crushing death, tentacle monsters, mind invasion, forced amnesia/brain damage, animal death, eldritch horrors)

The ground shivers. In Haftesal, coffee-mugs ripple, leaves tremble above hydroponic tanks. Something is coming. The city feels it.

The people divide against each other. Evacuation plans are called for by some, panic rippling through the populace – but others say that it's only an earthquake, hardly the first, and the city's infrastructure has always stood strong. Besides, where are they going to go? Outside, among unfriendly monsters, unprotected? No, no –- better to weather it down in their stronghold.

And then Ryslig shudders with enough strength to rattle the world.

For the first time since July 4th, the sea undulates. It doesn't churn, exactly; the movement is too slow, too intentional, a swell and a heave. Gelatinous waves crash over its surface, throwing trash, dead sea creatures, capsized boats onto the shore. The water foaming upon the sandy shores feels tepid, like the echo of body heat ebbing with the flow. As the waves recede, fissures ripple across the land, belching a boiling steam that gives off a wretched, vile smell unlike anything known in the ordered world of the living. It's the stench of a million curdled bodies, melted into a primordial brew below; it's the rot of a decayed planet, emanating from its hollowed, splintered center.

A crack opens beneath the table where Haftesal's leaders are calling for calm, and only they know what horror emerged from the ink-dark abyss and dragged them down, down, into unknown crushing depths.

Seen from above, it's like an enormous sinkhole opens up beneath part of Vandare. Buildings collapse, sliding downward along loose rocks and dirt. There is a roar and a crash, a tumble of steel panels, foundations, and something sinister drawing out the rug from beneath them. A stillness settles upon the heap for a couple of breathless moments, Vandare tensed and ready to summon the emergency responders. Until--

Well. Until the heap stirs, turns, and something emerges.

A great calamitous tendril, one immense column a hundred feet or more nested among smaller clusters, pushes its way out of the earth – its shape is ever-changing, its colors something that the brain can only process as green-gray-brown-orange-death. It reaches into the air, unfurling and impossibly massive, then curling in on itself, not quite following the usual laws of matter, too big and too thin all at once. A slimy substance that makes the skin crawl just to look at oozes down the surface, then hits the earth below with a wet squelch.

The grand promise of the future, the city of tomorrow, Haftesal, is gone. Anyone who wasn't out in the first few minutes did not get out. Tentacles loom over what once stood there, casting a great shadow upon the land, the remains of Vandare, and any foolish enough to approach.

Fissures continue to spread across the peninsula, and the tentacles multiply. Bavan's buildings groan; fishing-piers collapse into the thickened ocean; rockslides bury trees, lodges, travelers in the mountains. And as for the crevices that open, dark and yawning – get too close, and you will see one of these slick limbs flailing, sweeping innocents into the void below. If you're lucky, it's just a tendril; if you're not, slick petals peel away from a bulb to reveal an eye.

It's looking at you. It sees you. It knows you.

And it hungers for you.

Some monsters may want to stand their ground. They may use their Gods-given gifts to fight back, fend off whatever it is that's attacking from beneath the earth's surface. When hit with magic, any part of the creature seeks refuge in the darkness it came from – only to reappear and wreak havoc elsewhere on the peninsula. Drive it from your homes, little monsters – and doom someone else in your place. But if you intend to use your claws or your teeth to rip into these tendrils- if you touch this being in any direct way- be prepared to pay the price. For you have given it a path into your mind, and in your mind you will see the ends of worlds, destruction on a dimensional scale, deaths of living beings in every manner imaginable – you will see what it has seen, the horrors and screams and choking gasps of countless absolute ends.

Do you recognize any of them, monsters? Do you see your own world? Another's? Is there enough of your own mind left to do it? Or are you lost in the agony of finality, the knowledge that all is gone, all is gone, and there is no restoring it?

Something of yours is gone, too, when you return to yourself. Whether obvious or not, whether a limb or a part of your mind, you do not escape the World-Eater unchanged.

The world is being eaten away, and so, too, are you.

THE LEGEND

(CW: self sacrifice)

Something else is stirring on the peninsula, something just as old, just as strong. Stories have their own power, and this one, rising half-forgotten from the old wives' tales and nursery rhymes and proverbs that last longer than history books, spreads like wildfire. It is repeated in furtive whispers from human to human, mother to child, friend to friend in darkened living-rooms behind closed curtains, in bar back-rooms, in whatever shelter the humans have taken to prolong their survival one more month, as they listen in fear for the twin dangers of a monster's approach and the telltale tremor of the ground.

Once, there was something far greater than us. Something beyond man, monster, and even the gods – something that erased everything it touched.

There is a change in the human population as the story ripples outwards, as fissures crackle across the ground underfoot. Determination flashes in their eyes, resolve straightens their backs, clenches their fists. The story fills them with fear, yes – but promises a strange sort of hope. Possibility. Opportunity.

That great big something was called the World-Eater. The source of all gods, all power. Creator and destroyer.

Hostility towards monsters certainly increases, as they're turned away from businesses, threatened, shouted at in passing. Humans begin traveling in groups. Those with truly no friends or kin to turn to move alone, but it becomes a rarer and rarer sight. Anger and fear replace welcome and human-monster cooperation, and do not fade away: monsters are at fault, monsters don't belong, monsters should leave humans alone or pay the price. And rumor has it that throwing a monster into a fissure means it disappears for good, never to come back. They might never have a chance to rid themselves of the Fog God's weapons of torment like this one again.

It made this world, and the gods that would rule it. But doing great deeds leads to great hunger. It also ate worlds, just like this one – places full of lives, people, possibilities. It devoured those possibilities, unstoppable, uncontrollable, and the remains of those broken worlds became the Sea of Stars. It ate, and ate, and ate – until it was satisfied, and grew drowsy. The very wise, who knew an old magic, older than the Sea, gathered and offered of themselves to pacify it, to prolong the World-Eater's slumber. It could not be killed, for its body is the land and sea, but it can be kept inert.

But not every human agrees, and on the street, the radio, television, the native people of Ryslig start to argue. Shunning monsters has never led to peace or safety, not ten years ago and not now. Fighting them has only led to more death, more pain. Just this October, monsters gave their all to protect and preserve humanity, and more recently, they stayed their hands when humans were the aggressors. Surely a more permanent peace is not impossible. Surely collaboration against this threat, the tentacles and the earthquakes, is better – because when the tentacles have erased every monster, what's to say they'll stop? The humans will be safe from monsters, but killed by the World-Eater.

It was forgotten. Its name fell away from our minds, our hearts.

Sometimes, the confrontations turn physical. It's brother against brother, friend against friend – even lovers turn on each other, unable to reconcile differences of opinion when the stakes are so, so high. Those in favor of cooperation are called pathetic sycophants, as though caving to tormentors and predators will save their skins; those who resist are called short-sighted fools.

What can they do?

What is left that anyone can do?

It can't be fought. It can only be lulled. It comes at a great cost, greater than any one person can give. Can that unity be achieved?

MANY HANDS MAKE LIGHT WORK

(CW: bugs)

There is a flurry of activity at the edges of cities and upon the abandoned beaches. While humans argue amongst themselves, they are busy. A familiar they, who have always introduced themselves as we and us in their shared voices, typically around the holiday seasons. They chant and chitter noisily, in perfect harmony, like a finely-tuned chord.

It's the parasite swarm of Kulen, of course, and evidently they are on the move, well out of their usual breeding season. They are separated, too, gathering in smaller groups around the peninsula rather than in a massive surging horde, flitting between spaces, quick to chat, but rarely lingering. Busybodies to the end.

Kulen's parasites can be seen in small clusters in alleyways, near dumpsters, skittering across sand dunes along the shoreline, next to compost heaps… Hurriedly, they gather, frantic to the untrained eye. They pilfer, they unearth, they discover, and they hoard for the horde. Trash of all kinds becomes theirs. Their taste ranges from antique chotchkies to discarded cigarette butts and half-eaten pizzas: unrefined, to put it lightly.

But the longer you listen, the more you get an idea that they have a new project in mind. A special project. Their final project, in the name of the Queen.

“It is Us!” they chitter as they collect their treasures. “We are Here! The Queen is Here! Tell Us! How do We go to a Not Here? How do you make it a Not Here? Give Us help, yes?”

Give them a hand, and they may drag you along for the trash-diving ride. Don't, and they might choose to chuck you out with the rest of their rejects as they continue on their skittering, scampering, chittering way –

Out and away, to finish their quest for Not Here.

OOC INFORMATION

This is your IC post for the last Mod plot: The World-Eater Awakens, lasting from July 14th to July 31st!

For more information and plotting, see the OOC post! Player engagement will be very important, and plays a key role in determining the details of Ryslig's ending, so please take the time to let us know any proactive action your character takes here! Your deadline for submitting these actions is July 20th (11:59PM ET)!

comments

MOD PLOT: THE BEGINNING OF THE END

Thu, 04 Jul 2024 13:02:51 GMT

Posted by: ryslighelpers

MOD PLOT: THE BEGINNING OF THE END

PEARL DUST AND SLIMY SCALES

(cw: thalassophobia, animal death)

There is a beat of darkness, before there is an audible click.

Footage from a camera focuses on aged wooden slats of a pier before it is corrected, raised upwards to look around. A thumb can be seen in the corner of the viewfinder before the man behind the camera adjusts his hold. A girl laughs. The camera shifts to look down at her.

A little blonde girl with a few missing teeth smiles brightly at the camera, a large bucket hat practically swallowing her head whole. The bright orange safety vest is equally as large on her. She poses, making her loose braids bounce with the movement. Her fishing pole is forgotten behind her in the excitement of the camera her father holds. She throws a peace sign at the audience. The cameraman laughs, a joyful sound that only dries up as the pier the two are standing upon rocks slightly underfoot. The girl turns away to stare at the ocean.

The view drops down to the slatted wooden boards before tilting to look at the ocean. The camera zooms in on a swirling hole that is forming in the ocean itself. The water crashes over itself, the awful dark absence where water should be widening, now large enough to suck in driftwood, now pulling in a fishing boat, and showing no signs of slowing down.

Then, all at once, something blurred hurtles from that hole up through the air so fast that the man behind the camera can’t quite keep up with it. The scene pivots wildly, turning ashore. The thing from the sea, round, occluded, gleaming a foggy gray-white, craters upon the sandy shore, an explosion of dirt and debris flying through the air, obscuring the lighthouse on the cliffs in the background. The little girl shrieks out of frame, the video jittering as her father calls out an obscured name. Static engulfs the scene, shrill and whinging, their voices lost to –

To what must feel like a cataclysmic event. Something enormous, profound.

Unstoppable.

Click, clatter, CRASH.

The video spins and falls, bouncing once, twice, and settling askew. A smoking crater shifts into focus, unnatural brightly-technicolor wisps arcing high into a clear blue sky.

Bzzzzzt. Darkness.

The clip ends, fading back to a talking head seated at a wooden news desk, her expression grim. Her grip tightens on the loose paper in her grasp. News channel branding resumes at the lower right corner of the screen. She leans forward as she speaks, lipstick staining her teeth.

“According to our two witnesses, the unidentified object launched out of the sea in close proximity to the last known location of the Monster’s Pearl. A supernatural event occurred there almost exactly three years ago, when debris from worlds beyond our own was expelled onto our shores. And now, today, a new unknown phenomenon has begun,” she begins, her voice somber. The screen cuts back to an interview with a young father, his brown hair wild with a whipping wind offshore, recounting the event first-hand:

“So it crashed right over on the sands, yes, right over there – and I heard Astrid screaming, ‘Daddy, Daddy, what’s happening, are we being attacked?’ And I said to her, ‘No, darling, come here, hold my hand and squeeze your eyes shut, we have to go home, now!’ And that’s when she looked down and saw it. The fish, you see. The fish were all being beached ashore. Washed up dead.

“Don’t know what it could mean, but it’s nothing good. And strangest of all was the waves. We got the heck out of there with the camera as fast as we could, but the ocean, the waves, they all just stopped. Still. Nothing. Windy as all get-out and there were no waves at all on the sea.”

CONSUMPTION OF THE ABSOLUTE

(cw: natural disaster, earthquake, implication of digestion horror whether strictly accurate or not)

It starts slow, a subtle shifting of the earth. A few blades of grass quiver; a pebble tilts one way, then the other. Soil churns restlessly beneath the crust, dust shaking free from weathered, carved stones.

The graveyard has been untouched by the passage of time. Aside from the small fissures from last month, half filled-in now and barely visible, it is a bastion of familiarity to monsters new and old, a way to know who is still amongst them and who has ‘departed.’ There is comfort in sorrow, sometimes, for those who have ‘escaped’ the peninsula’s clutches; comfort found in this quiet place, as much as dizzied confusion from those stumbling fresh from the grounds.

It’s peaceful. Quiet. A soft breeze sways the green grass, toying with the gently curling mist.

Until it isn’t. Pray none of you are near when the earth shatters.

Gravestones shift, all listing in the same direction. The ground underfoot weakens, dirt loosening and – slipping. Falling. Next cleave and crack the headstones, the more elaborate displays crumbling to dust from the foundations to the crowns of carved stone heads. Wrought iron fencing groans and creaks, tilting ominously inwards.

What lies beneath the graveyard? Have you ever wondered? The answer is nothing, it seems. A chasm. A void. Darkness. Emptiness.

The creaking of the gate fills the air as the ground begins to shake.

The earth gives way, bit by bit. In loose chunks, it sinks into a bottomless hole; first one row of graves falls, then another. Stones slide across the grass, crashing into other grave markers as they go, cracking and splintering like shattered bone. It all tumbles into a growing maw, inky-black and infinite. Within minutes, the entire graveyard is swallowed up, sinking into the earth with a cacophony of crunches and groaning earth.

All that remains is the jagged edges of what once was, a hole that’s perfectly round when viewed from above. Exposed rock and dirt of newly created cliff sides are peppered with debris of broken vases and grave markers. It's large, pushing at the edges at the graveyard gates, but not past them, not quite – though just looking at it makes one fear for the earth beneath one’s feet, less sure and solid than previously assumed.

Those who look down can only see a distinct, shapeless darkness. No light reaches the bottom; no eyes can detect outcroppings or tunnels along its wide-open walls.

The cavern belches. It reeks of heat, of more than just damp cavernous rock and dirt.

You might want to think twice about testing your luck down there.

QUIETLY LURKING, SWALLOWING THE NOISE

(cw: drowning, deep water imagery)

Those who dare venture out to the shores after the news broadcast will find the sea… still. All that’s there, stretching far into a distant, foggy horizon, is a placid, calm surface. The natural roar of waves and dip of the tides is gone; there’s no choppiness, no ripples to mar the glassy, unblemished mirror of it. The longer one gazes into its sparkling blue depths, the more ill-at-ease one feels.

Look even closer, and the ocean will reveal its next secret: nothing lives beneath the surface, not anymore. There are no fish, no ocean-plants, no algae, no seaweed. There is not a flutter, not a speck of movement to be found.

The fishing boats, if they brave the waters edging up against the Franfalle Line, will draw up empty nets, save for the plastic bags and cupfuls of human garbage. No amount of engine-revving can incite waves; they die, muffled, and the water’s inert again. Nothing darts away from the choked, fading disturbance.

Touch the water, and it will ripple softly, then cease, like it fights, resists movement. You may even feel the faint start of an unpleasant pulling, slurping sensation upon your hand, the water itself gripping wherever you’re foolish enough to touch it with and meaning to draw you down.

Some might call the preternatural stillness tranquil. The rest settle upon ‘unnerving.’ Those sensible folks sense a queasy wrongness that only grows worse as the ocean refuses to behave like water...

Long into the small hours of July 4th, the fog at last rolls in over a dead sea. It is almost a relief, to behold a familiar constant to the land, a presence that has been spoken of, written of, feared so desperately for years. The relief, to Fog-endeared Monsters, might be short-lived. Because when it comes, it comes silent: there are no whispers of violence, no pleas for vengeance. The hunger doesn’t burgeon and bloom, the transformations aren’t stoked beyond what has already occurred.

The Fog is as quiet and breathless as the sea. She's more of a heavy blanket draped over you, something suffocating that does little to offer comfort to any monster or man present. She crackles like a budding storm, thick and dark and heavy. Trepidation fills the air, billowing in moored sails, a charge of electricity making hair stand on end.

It smells like rain, but water never falls.

A STEEL-FORGED TETHER, PULLED TIGHT

Something is coming!

something is coming : )

Something is–

The echo is heard three times in every Monster’s dreams. It is in every Monster’s meditations, if they do not sleep. First it blares in the shrill, shrieking whispers of the Fog, next it mellows down into a soothing atonal adolescent voice, and the last trills a discordant melting of the two, intertwined, intermingling, a whole in two parts.

The sea is still, without life, without death, without movement, a calamitous portent – a reflection – of the fading stars in the twin Sea high above the earth. The Monsters’ graveyard is gone, and the corresponding stars belonging to those wretched souls blink out of sight, out of touch, to a place where the gods cannot reach them.

And in these vile, disquieting hours, a force beyond them both tightens their binds

Forcing them

Coexist. Join hands. Ally.

Can they stand it? They will have to.

JOINED HANDS

In Dyster, a new landmark location blooms out of the public square, erupting all at once into a neon paradise tucked within the mists. "ARCADE!" blinks the multicolor neon. "GAMES AND COOKIES INSIDE!"

In the Arcade, windows to a World Outside spring open, revealing a fog-drenched town beyond its front entry doors. Were there entry doors in the Arcade? There are now, and they never lock.

Dyster keys sometimes lead to the Arcade. Arcade keycards sometimes yawn open into mist-damp Dyster. Hell, if a Monster, any Monster, opens a door around the peninsula, they might stumble upon another domain entirely, full of mist, full of neon, full of cookies and games and hollow-eyed human-servants and blood and quiet. Two realms in one, one in the same.

Better shake on it. You’re neighbors now.

Or would you rather tear each other apart unto oblivion? The screaming in your head, from either of your gods, might prefer it that way. For now.

OOC INFORMATION

For more information, plotting, and questions about the start of the End, please see the accompanying OOC post. This is meant to set the stage for the last two weeks of July. Enjoy, and we hope you'll go out with a bang with us!

comments

THEY'RE FINALLY GETTING MARRIED [open to existing CR]

Sun, 30 Jun 2024 22:48:52 GMT

Posted by: detectivision

Who: Bucky, Sherlock, family, friends. Best men, turtle kids, fourth wallers. If you know them, and you're on neutral to positive terms, assume you were invited.
What: If you like it, you put a ring on it before some heiress with a dead dad and mysterious treasure comes along and does it first.
When: June 10, pre-ghosts, just before and then after sunset
Where: Bavan, a deconsecrated church and its garden.
Warnings: pffffffffhahahaha anything you bring with you. also please do treat it like a regular party/mingle and make TLs as you want.

( no seriously we're skipping the violin pining and self-destructive criminal chase and going right to honeymoon )

comments

PLAYER PLOT: THE GRAVEYARD SHIFT

Fri, 14 Jun 2024 20:13:12 GMT

Posted by: ryslighelpers

PLAYER PLOT: THE GRAVEYARD SHIFT

The fog rolls in upon Ryslig and it is as typical as the fog can be. Many a month has there been, where something wasn’t quite right; a howl on the air, a storm in the winds, a portent of what is yet to come. Be it the start of the month, or as it is now near to the middle, it is almost never… Just fog these days.

Yet ‘just fog’ is precisely what it is, and for a few blissful moments the entire peninsula breathes just a little easier. Well, the monsters do at least. Wee humans after all, fragile mortals that they are, are always left to fear being snatched in the shadows to never be seen again.

…Though it seems this time that perhaps mere monsters aren’t to blame.

LIKE AN OMEN OF END TIMES

When the fog rolls in it’s easy to miss what follows. All through the month, the gates have been weakening- their sacred rites violently mismanaged, the final seal at last broken apart. Their former keeper did his best to prevent what’s yet to come, but just as the Fog is inevitable so too are THEY.

For some it begins with voices- whispers without a source, momentary glimpses of a great fear. The floor seems to fill with blood, the halls become that old apartment you longed to forget, and screams of the dead spout accusations of your crime….Only to disappear with no one to blame but oneself.

Or an unwitting bystander. (Perhaps the voices point that out as well.)

For others the signs are far more overt; the dead walk out from the beyond, their appearances ranging from the bloat of a corpse to a patchwork of inhumanity. Contortionistic beings claw their way through wood and stone, and that’s only on their own- some unlucky victims might even find themselves shunted to the back of their own mind as something else takes hold, determined to drive fear into the heart of their host and all bystanders alike. Chewing glass until their insides force blood through the seams, bending limbs in ways not even monsters can manage-!

Perhaps some should be grateful if all they experience is a few glitches, then. A few unexplained gleams of light. A draft, here and there, a floating object that falls as soon as it’s perceived. Static snow on a television screen, and a final vision of a spirit from the far beyond. Unable to touch, unable to speak…Leaving nothing but a bit of strange goo in their wake.

Spirits of the dead have taken over the peninsula, and they have no preference of their victim. Be they human or monster the entities strike, and within a mere handful of hours the only thing keeping the country from utter ruin is the fact that only a small portion of the creatures work directly.

But then…what can be done?

A WICKED FORCE EXHUMED

(CW: Human sacrifice, burned bodies, desecrated bodies, blood, cult/ritual overtones)

Within but a day of the sudden flood of undead, an announcement is sent across the peninsula. While monsters will almost undoubtedly see it by way of their ever handy laptop network, humanity also comes face to face with the announcement- literally in some cases, as the face of an old and worn mortician named Todd Mortensen flashes upon the television screen. His voice reedy but firm as he speaks.

"People of Ryslig," Mortensen proclaims. "We face an attack by the likes of nothing any should ever see. It has been my solemn duty, and that of my forebears, to ensure the creatures you see now never escape into our world, but what was sealed for centuries has at last broken free."

"But that does not mean they have already won."

The message brings hope- it tells the citizens of their tiny pocket of civilization what they can do to protect themselves from the force that plagues them, and of what can buy them time for the greater attack. Soon enough people arm themselves with bars of salted steel, and potted plants are spotted at every salted window. These, Mortensen explains, are but stop-gaps however.

What he needs of them is a Ritual. The humans have their own to follow- a procedure to partake in to the letter, to add fuel for what will once more lock the spirits away. They cannot be destroyed, Mortensen warns.

They can only be banished.

The monsters however have a more unique ritual to follow. They must, he explains, Sacrifice a Meal. They cannot explicitly hunt another living being to offer as their sacrifice- no, this would be too simple a task. Instead, they have to find for themselves a dead body and ensure nothing has ever been eaten from it- not even the energy and soul.

Work together, or work alone, what matters is that they do their part; binding a body in salt-soaked cloth to be burned on a pyre, runes of monster painted blood carefully marked upon the hollow vessel in advance. Alone, and a monster might find themselves overpowered by spirits aware that their time is up- but in groups, monsters could well be turned against the other instead.

Loathe as Mortensen is to admit it, they must all at least try.

"We cannot succeed without working as one."

SHOW ME UNHOLY SCORN

One by one, rituals are performed- whether with success or failure however, no one can be certain. On the final day of their ongoing hell, Mortensen performs one last rite to act as the trigger for his mass undertaking however…

…And in a flash, it’s all over. It will take until news reaches the ears and eyes of Ryslig once again, before Mortensen’s final fate can be known- whether the gods of the land were needed to intervene or not, ghouls and ghosts locked away in a different sort of prison. What matters for you, dear monsters, is that it’s done.

Hopefully the humans agree.

OOC INFORMATION

This is your IC post for the June Player Plot, The Graveyard Shift, lasting from June 14th to June 21st! An OOC Vote is being held here, and will be held until the final day of the event itself...at which point, the fate of dear Todd Mortensen will be revealed. An interactive network post will be made to unveil this ending no matter the vote's outcome, so please look forward to that- and remember to vote!

For further information, plotting, and questions about the event, please see the OOC post. Have fun with your spooks, Ryslig- and remember to salt those entry points!

comments

FOURTH WALL: SOMETHING STIRS BELOW

Tue, 04 Jun 2024 17:45:49 GMT

Posted by: ryslighelpers

FOURTH WALL: SOMETHING STIRS BELOW

(CW: earthquake, tidal wave damage/oceanfront disaster)

In the early hours of June 4th, the earth shudders.

It’s not the longest earthquake there’s ever been. Ten seconds or so, and it’s over. But for those ten seconds, everyone – everyone all across Ryslig – and beyond, out in the wastelands – feels the ground tremble and shake.

They feel it stir.

It quiets, soon enough; most of what is left behind in its wake is some broken glass, some structural damage on more fragile buildings. Some strangely high waves take out Vandare’s beachfront property. Nothing to worry about, right? It’s not the worst disaster Ryslig’s experienced in recent memory.

Turn over in your beds, little monsters, and go back to sleep. Rest your weary heads, dream comfortable dreams. Rest while slumber calls upon you.

It’s probably nothing.

IT WASN’T NOTHING

(for Fourth Wallers | CW: claustrophobia, being buried alive)

You open your eyes, and everything is pressure, close, earth. You feel cool dirt and rock around you, but don’t panic – if you try to move your arm, you’ll be able to. There’s light, coming from above – struggle towards it, and you’ll find enough handholds and footholds to emerge.

If you do panic, it’s all right – your calls for help are close enough to the surface to be heard, and even if a monstrous hand doesn’t reach down to get you, a human one might. Help comes for you, even if it feels hopeless packed amongst the dirt.

All newcomers emerge in a misty graveyard. Something about this place is soothing, unnaturally so: stay here long enough, and it’ll be hard to keep your eyes open. The mist swirls around you, soothing, assuring, too lulling to remain. Better to get on out of here, to go out to the city of Bavan, to find your feet in this strange new world. Many things await you away from here, why linger?

The names on the gravestones are those who have been brought here by the Fog before, and who have left Ryslig to return to the Sea of Stars. Are they people you knew? Is your name there?

Maybe it’s better not to look too hard.

SHED YOUR SKIN, BE BORN ANEW

(for everyone | CW: body horror)

The mental connection to the network is over. Electricity has been restored. Everything is back to normal – except for the monsters.

Ryslig’s established monsters are still in unfamiliar skins, gripped by unfamiliar hungers and needs and powers. Just as they get used to one, they may be pulled into another self, another possibility of flesh and bone. The comfortable sense of stability once brought by being one monster does not remain. The Fog’s gifts keep shifting. She blesses her children continually, even if they aren’t pleased with the results.

The newcomers, the ones who crawled up through the fissures in the graveyard, are not spared. Mercy is not to be found in the peninsula, for new or old monsters.

Within days of arriving, hours, even, if they’re unlucky, they begin to change. Bones snapping, skin tearing, horns and claws pushing out bloody and raw, their once-human bodies warp into something else. Something wholly new and you. And, with it…with it, they’ll feel the beginnings of hunger, hunger that can only be satisfied through the Fog’s unholy directives. Frenetic whispers from Her echo in newly inhuman ears:

Kill the humans. Feed on their flesh, their blood, their bones. Drag them into the waters, drain them dry. Reach into their souls, take them for your own. Feed, my children, and destroy. Do not hesitate. Feed until you have your fill.

But it is not only Her influence on new monsters: For some, metal greedily consumes flesh, rippling across what skin it reaches to subsume it. Newly emerged monsters quickly find themselves torn asunder, broken into strange new shapes, spikes, flesh, bone, metal, soft delicate meat worn away by hard alloy. Blood and other viscous fluids flow freely from freshly opened wounds. Oil and blood meld together in disgusting sticky rusty smears, staining what it touches. Sometimes meat and metal combine, forming something new and twisted to behold. Nothing quite like this place has seen before.

Cybernetic changes that settle over the new monsters take a gamut of shapes, like mechanical eyes, glowing eyes, mechanical limbs. These changes are manifesting on some of the graveyard newcomers. They don’t form built-in weapons or confer new abilities from these metallic parts of themselves, but cosmetically, you’re part computer now. Spooky.

WATCH YOUR STEP, DEAR MONSTERS

(CW: after effects of natural disaster)

The fissures in the graveyard aren’t the only ones. Cracks appear here and there throughout Ryslig – some only a few feet across, some nearly two dozen feet long. None of them seem deeper than about fifty feet, but watch your step, dear monsters, and do hope none of them opened beneath where you call home.

If you’re stuck for somewhere to stay, the gods will welcome you: pray to the Fog or the Fourth, and they will give you a key to rooms in their domains. There are promises of safety within their domains, promise of comfort amongst the confusion brought by your arrival and changes. Otherwise, look to your fellow monsters – or murder a family for their house. Someone will take you in. There are options, even if you need to make them yourself. What is Ryslig, but a land of making your own opportunities even if those opportunities are born of blood and hunger?

OOC INFORMATION

Welcome, old players and new, to our combined arrival & change log for Ryslig's last fourth wall event! Check out the OOC info post for more information about the fourth wall and our endgame schedule, and the player plot info for more information about temp monster changes. Feel free to raise any questions you might have on the corresponding posts!

We hope you'll enjoy this last chance to play any character as any monster!

comments

PLAYER PLOT: DRAW THE CURTAIN, CLICK THE LATCH

Tue, 14 May 2024 18:25:26 GMT

Posted by: ryslighelpers

PLAYER PLOT: DRAW THE CURTAIN, CLICK THE LATCH

LOCK YOUR WINDOWS, LOCK YOUR DOORS

(CW: Abduction, ritualistic assault)

Old invitations never retracted. A gaunt shadow lurking at the door. False guest keys issued, covert private meetings arranged under cover of a dark, noiseless night, tucked away in an empty office, the meetings cut short by the swipe of a claw and the decisive clang of shackles and silver rope.

Did you trust your fellow Monster to respect boundaries, when he became desperate? You shouldn’t have. He exploits your weakness, intent on ending this unending ‘god’-rebellion once and for all.

The ghosts of Dyster hold their breath and cast their unwelcoming stares to the bound-and-gagged strangers among them, felled in a heap upon a dais erected in the public square. Frayed fabric swooshes in a gust of wind, the dulcet, whispering laugh of an intangible Fog piercing the hearts and minds of all witnesses present.

Dyster town utters a collective, gluttonous sigh, the sweet smell of power on its breath. It crackles, it swells at the seams, in tandem with the withering of the figures splayed on the altar. And then it seeps, slowly through the parted veil, and then all at once, billowing into the peninsula proper.

YOU BETTER RUN, YOU BETTER RUN, YOU BETTER HIDE

(CW: Body horror, Suffocation, Lung Damage, Mass Airborne Chemical Warfare)

This Fog is different. This Fog is early. On May 14th in the dead of night, it rolls in thick rivulets, twin epicenters pulsing over Dyster and from the mouth of the Maw. It seethes in shades of glowing purple, neon green, blue, white, black, like thunderclaps, flash! One color. BOOM! Another. It’ll infect the lungs, sear the eyes like woodsmoke, burn bodies like embers. Humans scatter, corral themselves indoors; they must shield their faces, wrap cloth about their noses and mouths, or else suffer a malady of the breast, their lungs scratched with pinpricks of glass. Haftesal distributes gas masks and opens their gates underground for any who seek a reprieve.

And Monsters? Their pain is only temporary. Monsters will twist, and change, and crunch into an altogether different breed from the one they’ve come to know as themselves.

When all is said and done, and the marvelous laughter of Madame Fog fades away in your head, you look into the mirror and find…

Something new.

A brand new you.

And the Hunger is gnawing oppressively at your guts, begging you to replenish the weakness from your transfiguration.

The humans are vulnerable, they’re quailing, they’re tucked into the darkest corners where you thrive. Go forth and feast.

WHO'S THAT WHISPERING IN MY HEAD?

(CW: Thought-share)

When the Fog completes its journey blanketing the peninsula, the power cuts. First it sputters, then it dies, winking out in a ripple emanating from the Cube in Bavan City, out to Vandare and Haftesal along the coast. Lights snuff to darkness, Monster laptop screens die and refuse to boot up again.

Fires flare up in human encampments. Haftesal dips into their stash of high-powered batteries and fashion propane-fueled devices to compensate for the loss. Town Criers emerge like clockwork upon the corners of city blocks, shouting updates about the state of the town, headways in restoring power, the progress of emergency workers stampeding the streets.

For humans, it is a muted, frightening, and dark scape out there, as they hide in their cellars.

For Monsters, however – the noise is deafening. First an unwitting thought pops into your head in the shape of a far-away friend’s voice. Then another. Then you return an answer, and they answer in turn.

What on earth is happening out there, and why can I hear you? Are you changed, too?

And again, the Fog’s laugh rings loud and clear when Monsters restlessly tuck themselves into bed for their day.

WHEN WILL THIS END, WHEN WILL THIS END?

On May 24th, the power churns and whirs back to life, to the whooping cheers of electrical workers and first responders documenting their mounting losses to Monster attacks. Yet the Fog has not receded. It has grown denser, more colored, and tangled with electrical storms that threaten to take electricity from the land once more.

The changes haven’t stopped, either. Again and again, Monster bodies warp, just when they reach the cusp of comfort in their new shapes. Again and again, the Fog’s delight echoes late into the night, whispering promises of power, appetite, a better and freer and more improved child, ready to frenzy against the world.

When will this end? Bavan City cries. Is this the end?

In answer, the Fog crackles and surges.

OOC INFORMATION

This is your Monster Swap lasting from mid-May to mid-July 2024, and the final Monster Swap event for Ryslig. Please refer to the OOC information post for any specific questions. Go wild and have fun!

comments

In Which The Devil Lurks In the Shadows

Wed, 08 May 2024 17:53:29 GMT

Posted by: inseine

Who: Javert, Leo Hamato, and Sherlock Holmes
What: Javert invited Leo and Holmes to game night. The two of them simply didn't grasp the real nature of the game.
When: Directly preceding the start of the May 2024 Monster Swap event.
Where: The Surf Board board game café and the surrounding areas, eventually hitting the corrupted Bavan Central Park.
Warnings: Violence. Unprovoked attack. Language. Fogginess. Slippery, manipulative maneuvers. Dehumanizing language and behaviors. Mind control of a human, and the potential exploration of what happens when that mind control is severed. And, as always, the classic warning for Javert Javerting.

( The time of Judgment is nigh. )

comments

HAPPY SWEET SIXTEEN

Wed, 08 May 2024 15:02:22 GMT

Posted by: gobo_projection

Who: Reira, and EVERYONE!
What: It's Reira's 16th Birthday!
When: May 8th
Where: Amusement Mile
Warnings: None- Be sure to add your own as needed!

It begins, with an invitation...a Re-Invitation, if you will.

< CCC-REDHORSE >

Hello everyone! Don't forget! On the 8th, as soon as it's 12:01, I'm having my birthday at Amusement Mile! There'll be busses ready at the downtown bus depot for anyone who needs a ride, and I'll be paying for every monster that goes to have full day passes!

Make sure to bring food or money for food there though! I couldn't cover that part...

It's going to be fun! Don't worry about presents- the present is everyone having fun!!

...So it reads, a familiar message for most of the monsters and soon to be monsters here. And why not go? It's free! A whole pack of amusement park rides, right there!

What could go wrong?

( The Last Party...An appropriate Milestone Too! )
[[OOC - The information that used to exist for Amusement Mile has sadly been locked beyhind a private journal; however in turn, this also means we're left with some relative freedom in what rides are there. The above post has been deliberately vague on just how much there is to do, because if you can think of it existing at an amusement park? Then it may well be there!

Have fun mingling around!]]

comments

MAY ARRIVALS

Sat, 04 May 2024 20:02:48 GMT

Posted by: ryslighelpers

MAY ARRIVALS

DIRTY BEACHES

(closed to newbies | cw: live burial, asphyxiation/drowning threat)

It’s quiet, dark, and cool, and you are at peace. Everything is still, close, sedate – something’s surrounding you, something between water and an earthier substance, and it’s got you in snug, half-floating, half-buried. This is where you belong.

…except, it’s not. Whatever’s pressing against your eyes warns that opening them will just get you an eyeful of muck, but your lungs are burning, and you need to find a way out. Struggle, and you’ll meet resistance – thin stringy things in here with you, branching off themselves in an uneven organic net – but the surface has to be here, somewhere...

A hand reaches in, and catches yours. Perhaps it’s one of your fellow newcomers, or maybe it’s a person in a white lab-coat, which doesn’t stay white very long as they pull you out of a hydroponics trough and nutrient-rich water splashes everywhere. The person will tell you that this is Haftesal, and that you are on Ryslig peninsula – and that this is the way to the showers.

Newcomers will be given the chance to clean up (as well as some clean clothes!) along with a plain but nutritionally balanced meal. When that’s done, though, the Haftesaliens politely but firmly escort the newbies to the exit tunnel, which leads out to a ravine near Vandare. You’re on your own now, they say, and any attempts to return to Haftesal are met with muscle first, and then, if you persist, shock batons. They offer a map, a clunky laptop, and enough tasteless chewy meal bars for a week as a gesture of goodwill, but no matter what, the door to Haftesal will close behind you. Best to make your way elsewhere while you can. Your welcome was short-lived; hopefully there are safer pastures out there to call your own.

FOG-SUCKERS

(for everyone | cw: body horror)

The Fog creeps in...weak. If you’ve been here any time at all, you know this is odd: usually, when all is well with her, she rolls in like a storm in great swirling cloud banks, majestic and inexorable. It’s beautiful and terrifying, usually, and it muffles everything, makes the world seem mystical and dangerous, full of fangs and secrets.

This time, it scrabbles in like a cloud’s split-ends. It skulks along buildings’ sides, grasping with thin fingers at whatever it can reach. The world doesn’t go quiet; in Bavan, you feel like you can hear everything, every scrape of someone’s shoe, every yowling alley cat, every smashed bottle and broken window, for miles. It feels dirty, cloying, repulsive. The Fog does not obscure the stark reality of Bavan and its people.

But She still reaches for her children, Her newest children most. She wraps around them like tripwire, winding upwards, sinking beneath their skin. Kill, She says, into your mind. Her voice is potent, a sharp edge to go along with the pain. Kill, and eat. Make them afraid. Feast on flesh, on blood, on souls. Bathe, baptize yourself, in the blood of mankind and emerge made anew. There is a desperate edge under the sweetness of those words -- something easy to miss amidst the changes and hunger pangs -- new to some, approaching unstoppably for others.

You know how it goes, folks. The monsters due to change, change: bones crack, tendons tear, muscles ache. It goes slower than it otherwise might, drawn out and agonizing, lasting days – you might even have to go out for supplies half-changed, or ask a friend for help.

Most monsters are already fully themselves. Most know this place. Most have ways to get what they need. Most know what the fog usually brings. And their numbers shrink: the connection hasn’t been missed by Ryslig’s humans. Some light shrines in the old churches of the Day and Night god; others grow bolder, going out in the Fog, even at night. Humans talk, whisper among each other: is the blight truly going to end...? The Fog vanishing, and taking her monstrous “children” with her? There is a hope kindling amongst the human population as the realization spreads, a flicker for now. A flicker that could burn more brightly if stoked.

Others cry that it is the end of the world, the end times, and suggest repentance, strange sacrifices, and other unusual and seemingly random behaviors. Do you join in, when humans tear their clothes and smear ash on their face -- or hop-skip backwards while humming the Bavanian national anthem?

OOC INFORMATION

This is your May arrival log! Happy changes!

comments

MOD PLOT: PUSHING BOUNDARIES

Sun, 14 Apr 2024 17:29:32 GMT

Posted by: ryslighelpers

MOD PLOT: PUSHING BOUNDARIES

You know this feeling which prickles your skin, your fingertips, the back of your neck. You recognize this odd taste, which isn't quite a taste at all, as it comes to being in the back of your mouth. Your hair (or fur) begins to frizz, and you know that if you were to touch any surface now, you'd receive a nasty shock. The feeling may attempt to overwhelm you, almost wash over and absorb you, but it will be over within seconds.

Silence is interrupted by a loud crack, the sort which causes the ground to shudder. You don't know where it came from, as you didn't see anything out of the ordinary, but you realize instantly that a massive ordeal must've caused it.

That's about the only thought allowed to run through your head, for a fraction of a second. It's followed by a shrill POP! that seems like it might've come from you.

You feel as if you're thrown forward. Or backward. Or upside-down. Twirling and shaking. Yet when you open your eyes with several fierce blinks, you're still standing perfectly upright. The only trouble is, you aren't where you were a mere second ago.

You're someplace much worse than the Ryslig peninsula.

I'VE BEEN THROUGH THE DESERT

(CW: implications of environmental disaster, surreal setting)

Your first impression is 'dark'. Or perhaps 'pitch black' would be a better description. A surreal terrain stretches out in front of you- one of high dunes that look as if they're made of ash. Or coal, perhaps. A closer inspection tells you that it's sand, but if you reach down to cup a handful of it, it feels warm in your palm. One would think the sun's been beating down on this desert for hours, but if you look up, you're met with a thick deck of clouds. It's gray, with streaks of murky brown slathered through it in an attempt to add some color. That same murky brown surrounds you in the form of fog. Those who've been to the Wastes before will recognize the sepia hues, along with the stifling feeling it invokes. You're dizzy, uncomfortably warm, disoriented and hungry.

Surely there's more here than just desert, you think, so you turn your head.

To your right from the starting point, you see some distant rocky hills. Not high enough to be mountains, but there just may be caves. You set out in that direction, perhaps hopeful that it will lead you somewhere nicer, and become pestered by a prickle of dread which squirms along the back of your neck. The hills are about a hundred and twenty feet high at most, made of choppy, sharp stone of a golden brown color. Most outcroppings hold less height to them, averaging out at about sixty feet. As you circle around, you begin to realize that what lies beyond is even more desert in all directions; these hills are no more than a solitary island in the ocean of black sand. But you're in luck! On the other side lies a large pond, its water looking clear enough to drink. There are no fish to be seen, but that's the least of your concerns right now, for you've come face to face with a waterfall. … No, that isn't right, is it? The water isn't falling down at all. Instead, it's flowing backwards, high up into the sky, where it disappears in the clouds. The odd gravitational phenomenon only appears to affect the water, and only in this one corner of the pond. You may wonder how it hasn't run dry yet, but no answer will come to you.

To your left from the starting point, you spot a forest of sorts. From this distance, it appears unassuming, but the closer you get, the more you begin to realize that something's not right with these trees. They too hold a darkened shade to them, reminiscent of olives. The barren branches are twisted, twirled into odd shapes and dripping some sort of green ooze from cracks in the wood. Looking down towards the soil below, you take note there's no sign of fallen leaves, nor of roots below the surface. Each tree is only about a foot taller than the average human being would be. Is it your mind playing tricks on you, or are expressions of pain etched into the bark? More worrisome are the shadows which appear to flick between the trees, but only when you aren't looking directly at them. You strain your ears, but hear nothing. No breaking twigs, no birds, no rustle of the wind… The only sound here is that which originates from you or your fellow monsters. The forest stretches out for a good mile, then ends as abruptly as it began, leaving you face to face with desert once more.

And then there is the area behind your starting point. If you head in that direction and cross a mighty dune, you will find the solitary sign that this area was once inhabited: A curious ruin. Stone pillars jut out from the sand, their once square shape now irregular and closer to round from the years of wear. Symbols were once etched into the surface, now faded beyond recognition. If you were to dig around them, you would find the base about three to five feet down, standing on… soil? There's ground buried beneath this desert. The pillars are but minor detail, for what really draws the eye is the hundred foot tall temple they surround. In stark contrast to everything else in this place, it's still in mint condition, as if it were built only this morning. Its shape is reminiscent of a closed flower bud, the lower half constructed with fiery red stone while the top half of it is made up out of colorful stained glass, a line of gold-like metal separating the two parts. It holds no true doors, nor windows; only arched openings that lead the way into an enormous central hall.

As soon as you step inside, you're overcome with feelings of awe and humility. This is a hallowed location, a sanctuary, a token in reverence of something far greater than the whole lot of you combined. The walls inside are as untouched as the outside, but whatever enchantment has protected the building from the elements hasn't kept out the sand which still threatens to slip into your shoes. Surely, back when sunlight still reached this place, it would have streamed through the stained glass ceiling above you to create the most beautiful, colorful sight. As it stands, with the clouds and fog blocking out the sun, this place is bathed in gloomy shade instead. Taking a step back and sweeping the sand off the round floor beneath your feet will reveal a mosaic of a sun.

There are no artifacts to be found in this hall, nor food or drink. However, you may rest easy knowing that you are safe in here, dear monsters. Perhaps cuddle up close to another or build a fire if you can, for as soon as the haze of sunlight disappears beyond the horizon, a nipping chill falls over this desolate land. Yes, the nights are quite cold.

If you continue walking further beyond the ruin, you will eventually find the end of this land. It isn't marked by ocean, nor by canyons, nor even an impassable mountain range. No, it's much simpler than that. The land- the world- simply ceases to exist. Beyond you lies a vast, overwhelming Nothing. There is no ground, nor sky. Flying monsters may attempt to go over, but there is no crossing a void which has no other side. If you go too far, you too will be Nothing. Should you dare to come close to the ledge and peer over, you will see no bottom. If you throw down a rock, or any other object, it will not land. One may believe it disappears from existence, others may believe the object will fall for all eternity. Let's not find out the hard way.

This land lost its gods many years ago, and with no one to enforce the natural laws of the world, it does as it pleases.

ON A HORSE WITH NO NAME

(CW: Hunting and being hunted, blood, gore)

Soon after arrival, you'll realize you aren't the only one sent to this odd place. Your fellow monsters are just as disoriented as you are, just as uncomfortable and just as hungry. Even then, as you decide whether or not it'd be in your best interest to band together for survival, you are haunted by the feeling your group isn't alone in this land. No matter how barren this place appears, long abandoned by society, something unknown is living here.

One breed of entity you may encounter has made its home in the forest. At first, you might assume that there are several smaller threats, for each shadow which flits from tree to tree appears no larger than a child, their shapes inhuman but non-threatening. That is, until you've stayed in the forest for too long. That's when the shadows will start congregating, sliding into one another and increasing their size until something truly horrible towers over you. It has no face, nor claws, nor identifying features whatsoever. To assume it's a large Shade would be a mistake. What it is is unknowable, and where its limits lie is endless. It is Nothing, for it does not exist, and it intends to erase your existence as well. It surrounds prey with the intent to swallow it whole. Flee if you are alone, or fight if there are more of you. This being is weak to light, be it holy magic, some approximation of sunlight or even sparks from lightning.

Once killed, it takes on a solid form, but continues to be shapeless, its pitchblack surface shimmering with color like an oil slick. There is no skin, and a deft claw slicing into it may come across twisted bone buried in the mass if they search hard enough. Is the soft material surrounding it meat? It appears to be, going by texture, as well as the way it satiates your hunger. And is that black liquid blood? Surely, it must be.

Then there is the type of creature which can be found at the rocky hills. The casual visitor will not see it. Only those who linger and wait patiently will be rewarded, as the honey-colored, rocky surface will move. Eyes open wide; milky white slates devoid of irises or pupils, yet it sees you all the same. That hill you might've been using as a landmark loses a portion of its dimensions, as a stone beast steps away from the wall on two legs- no four- six legs. It stands approximately forty feet high, and a swing from its limbs packs enough punch to break monster bones. Any one of its 'feet' will crush you as if you were no more than an ant. A spell to drain its energy slows it down, but killing it may seem impossible at first, until you take note of the way it moves. Each part of its body is its own stone, and those stones are held together by connective tissue. Something flexible, soft, working like an adhesive. Or a ligament. Severing these connections will bring it apart bit by bit, until there are only large, separate boulders scattered along the desert sand.

Hunger licking at your insides, you may be tempted to crack open your trophy and find the reward inside. The stone was only a shell, now fragile and dry without the force of life that drove it. The outside crumbles away at your touch, exposing the feast within. This, at least, looks like the meat and blood you're used to seeing. There are no bones, but the severed ligaments look close enough to marrow to satiate any pookas.

Regardless of which creature you face, should you find yourself outmatched, you may always race back to the temple. The threats roaming this area will refuse to go near it, allowing you to regroup in peace- assuming your fellow monsters won't see an easy snack in you.

IT FELT GOOD TO BE OUT OF THE RAIN

But perhaps the most intimidating of all is that which has made its home in the clouds. You only catch a glimpse of it on rare occasions, as a coil of something long and scaly slithers out into the open. It's reminiscent of a flying snake, or a dragon perhaps, and it's enormous. If you're especially fortunate, you will spot a gigantic claw with long, sharp talons dipping out of the clouds. Its length is a mystery, but the diameter of its round body can be estimated at a good thirty feet. If it were to land, it would surely cause problems, but it never does. It's always in motion up in the sky, and seems to ignore the stranded monsters below.

Until someone attempts to fly. That's when it comes out of hiding to defend its territory.

No matter how fast you are, no matter how agile, no matter what sort of protective spells you have, the flying beast will not allow you to take to the sky for long. Raise too high off the ground, and you will come face to face with a round maw the size of an apartment building, open wide to reveal countless teeth and a strong gust of wind which pulls you down towards the esophagus. If you're smart, you'll dive back down towards the ground and stay there. If not… Well, you won't have more than three seconds to regret your mistake.

This creature is not suitable prey. No matter how large your group, it will always be the hunter.

IN THE DESERT YOU CAN'T REMEMBER YOUR NAME

(CW: Law enforcement action, mob mentality)

If you weren't affected by the teleporter, you're one of the lucky ones, though you may not realize it at the time. You're left behind in a peninsula which feels calmer than usual. Dread may set in as you realize your friends are no longer responsive to your network messages, nor are they answering their doors. Their names aren't to be found in the graveyard either, so they must be on the peninsula still. Where else could they possibly be?

Some humans begin to take note as well. Certain monsters haven't shown up to their jobs, and their usual dwellings appear empty. Could it be? Are they freed from the reign of terror imposed by these Fog-serving beasts at last? They dare to take a closer look, even going so far as to break into known monster homes in search of clues.

Haftesal has the answer. As the week goes on, they start putting out the news that they're in search of a rogue scientist from their own ranks. Someone who's fled the underground city with stolen technology and must now be hiding elsewhere. The disappearance of the monsters is only temporary, Haftesal insists, to crush any hopes before they could be raised even further. This state of the world is only temporary, as it so often is. Any monster who's met an untimely demise out in the Wastes and returns to the peninsula within the week through their respective god's protection may corroborate this.

On the 21st, the Scientist is found at last, her hide-out (a warehouse by Vandare's docks) flooded by Haftesal's law enforcement. Those who witness the arrest will catch a glimpse of her as she's guided away, her wrists shackled, her hair unkempt and her face set in defiance. She will not go quietly, shouting her protests in hopes of garnering more support, riling up the Vandarans who've kept her safe until now. Haftesal's top brass is filled with fools who waste precious resources! Why are these monsters being prioritized over their own people? Who will keep humanity safe if not them? Who will stop the beasts from taking more lives? They must act now!

Her supporters begin to fight back, roaring out their agreements as they shove their way past the law enforcement. In the chaos, one Haftesal representative manages to flick the switch which brings all abducted monsters back to the peninsula. Was that everyone? Let's hope so. With an angry mob attempting to make their way into the warehouse, the teleportation device is hastily disassembled, its pieces destroyed for good.

OOC INFORMATION

This is your IC post for the April Mod plot: Pushing Boundaries, lasting from April 14th to April 21st! Congrats to the mercy pool for an overwhelming victory! The Scientist will be imprisoned by Haftesal... For now.

For more information, plotting and any more questions about the setting, see the OOC post. Enjoy your weird little sandbox land!

comments

War, what is it good for? (water)

Tue, 09 Apr 2024 22:39:25 GMT

Posted by: makesascene

Who: Leonardo Hamato & you!
What: Leo has issued a challenge on the network. Dare you join him and others in the park for a classic water war?
When: April 9th mid-afternoon
Where: A local Bavan park
Warnings: Reference to war, teenagers playing with water guns and water balloons

( The water calls you to war )

comments

APRIL TRANSFORMATIONS

Thu, 04 Apr 2024 16:31:40 GMT

Posted by: ryslighelpers

APRIL TRANSFORMATIONS

WELL, HERE WE ARE AGAIN

She hasn't slept for more than three hours a night this week. She fears that any moment now, her door may be broken down. Any moment now, they may come for her and undo her hard work. There's no indication yet that they've taken notice, but she knows just as well as anyone that there may be a cover up at play.

She accepted the risk willingly. No matter how tragic, nor how gruesome, what happened to Johann hasn't deterred her.

She needs to finish as soon as possible, so that any attempt to stop her will come too late.

The calculations are still off. Rather, the end result is wrong. She can't seem to find that crack in the equation- the point that causes the numbers to veer off course. It all seems to add up perfectly, yet the lab scale tests prove that something is amiss. Perhaps the hardware is to blame. She may need to adjust for electrical interference in the spatial grid section. It should allow more energy to pass through- enough to dematerialize the target. (Rematerializing is not something she concerns herself with too much.)

She rotates another dial. Gently. Gently now, not too far. There.

The smaller, lab scale tests hold promise this time. She widens the input radius and tries again. What is science, but a continual cycle of trial and error? What is science but careful calculations that need adjustments until results sit before you?

IT'S ALWAYS SUCH A PLEASURE

(cw: body horror, gore)

It's an icy, chilly spring, dear monsters. It dips below freezing overnight, and only the morning sun gives relief, melting the frost off windows and grass, leaving condensation and dew behind. The afternoons are bright and almost warm as long as the sky is clear, but you know perfectly well that come Thursday, it won't be.

The fog rolls in damp and chill, and the wet cold sinks into your very bones. If you're lucky, that's all it does.

If you aren't, the bones respond to Her touch.

Endure it, fledgling horrors, as you become something you were not, as you emerge different. A baptism of pain, of blood, and you emerge in a new shape, with parts of yourself you do not recognize.

Become, She whispers in your ear. Grow strong. Fight. Feed.

For some of you, it's time. The ache in your gut won't go away, no matter how much ordinary food you eat. Instincts claw at the back of your brain like a fever: the smell of human draws you in. It is the only bright spot in a gray world. You need it. You crave it.

Do you give in? Do you choose to kill and eat before the hunger overtakes you? Or do you resist, and find that your body is no longer fully your own? One way or the other, you will feed.

OH HOW WE LAUGHED AND LAUGHED

Something odd happens, as the Fog comes in.

Not the changes. Those are normal. Natural. Expected. Some of you may even have been warned, given an idea of what was coming so that you could prepare.

This is something else. Something no monster could predict.

Beginning at dawn on April 4th, some monsters start to...blip.

Teleport.

One second you're in the familiar place you intend to be, the next you're somewhere else. Is it the street? An unfamiliar roof? A friend's house? An enemy's? These blips seem to come at random, and the places you appear are just as unpredictable. Rhyme and reason have no place here.

The only thing that seems to speed it up is being in close proximity to other monsters. If you gather in a group, if you try to make sure you go to the same place by holding hands or putting a lifeline on, you're almost guaranteed to wind up somewhere new. The more monsters in one place, the faster you blink out and reappear elsewhere.

There's no stopping it – not until the Fog lifts on the ninth. You'll just have to deal with it – and hope you don't appear anywhere too inconvenient...or dangerous.

EXCEPT I WASN'T LAUGHING

The teleporting may feel familiar to some older monsters. The way the space above you warps, draws up into a single point, just before you disappear – it may remind you of what happened when Haftesal, the technological haven for humans in the caverns below Vandare, tried to teleport the Fog out into the Wastes but ended up teleporting monsters instead.

Those on friendly, visiting terms with Haftesal– that is, monsters who have not attacked or otherwise harmed a Haftesal citizen, and who are not openly aligned with the Fog – may visit the city through its winding underground entrance tunnel and inquire about any current ill-advised matter-moving projects. However, the answer is the same no matter who you ask – leaders, scientists, researchers, all of them shake their heads in sincere-seeming bewilderment. No, they haven't used their teleporter in over a year, and they have no immediate plans to bring it out again. The parts are in storage. If you insist, though, they'll look into the matter for you.

Even mental influence won't change their tune. As far as can be determined, these scientists are telling the truth. The teleportation isn't Haftesal's fault. And if you try to use mental influence too obviously, or worse, start real trouble, they will see that you are removed from Haftesal -- with the help of their Clean-Up Crew vacuums, which will turn any monster into fog and eject them into the air outside the caves, if they must -- and not allowed back in. Ever. They don't forget. Under the circumstances, they've been shockingly nice.

But then, if it's not Haftesal, who is it?

OOC INFORMATION

This is your changelog for April! Newcomers have until July 2024 to finish their mandatory changes!

comments

PLAYER PLOT: WHAT I'M MADE OF

Thu, 14 Mar 2024 18:23:43 GMT

Posted by: ryslighelpers

PLAYER PLOT: WHAT I'M MADE OF

(CWs: Mild to Intense mental influence)
(Includes dropdowns for length)

The posters and radio announcements weren’t wrong. Step out of the dreary cold and into the Mall of Bavania, where the harsh lighting dims until they go dark as you approach the center court.

All day, there hasn’t been a sign of something major or catastrophic happening besides the clearly unnatural weather. If the show that “Surround Sound” is running isn’t what kickstarts things… well… maybe it’s just late at best.

Those autonomous mannequins the mall is known for file in almost carefully, but still bump into people here and there, adjusting their positions as the crowd of interested humans and monsters swell. They linger and surround the space around the audience. The stage itself is dark, lit only by the ambient neon light.

Let the show begin…

Suddenly a fog machine switches on to obscure the figures walking out, backed by a score of music as they take their places. Then– lights! Bright and cheerful. An orange spotlight on Crash, the drummer. A pink spotlight on Yuzu, the lead singer. And finally, a blue spotlight on Sonic, with an electric guitar, standing next to a large synth board.

The simulacrum steps forward, leaning into a mic. “Heeeell~lllooo Bavan!! We are Surround Sound and we are here to ROCK YOUR BUTTS OFF TONIGHT!”

It’s just the beginning, but even now there’s a tinge of magic hanging onto the electrified notes pulsing through the air, a hint of what’s to come-- a flash of passion, determination, even courageous fury mixing in with your anticipation.

"Thank you all for coming out here today!” Yuzu adds, taking in the gathered crowd of humans and any monsters in attendance. “It means so much to see how many of you would come all this way for our performance…!”

Everyone is aware that something could happen on this night. It is Ryslig, after all. Something catastrophic and dangerous is always on the menu. But it’s a risk everyone in attendance is clearly willing to take, including the band members themselves.

“... I joined Surround Sound because I believe in bringing out smiles wherever I go… in inspiring others toward a brighter future,” the harpy continues. “We know people out there who only want to cause pain and fear, but just like what our loved ones did for us when we needed it the most… we’ll show them that our courage is stronger."

The soothing effect of harpy singing is not unexpected, just subtle when spread so thin, even when doubled by enchanted percussion at a similar caliber from a minotaur.

Kakusenai hodo mabayui hikari seijaku yaburi kono yo ni yomigaeru
Hageshiku yuragu kawaita daichi inochi o kakete hibana butsukeau

Just one more time is all it’d take, to bring about a miracle!
For a power they can’t shake, memories lost within the wake~
I’ll find them…!

It’s just a taste of magic to start, just enough for an initial hint of entrancing spice during the first song.

And once it ends, the band takes a moment to soak in the applause. Even the listeners safe within their homes hold their breath for what comes next in the set list.

It might seem crazy what I'm 'bout to say
Sunshine she's here, you can take a break
I'm a hot air balloon that could go to space
With the air, like I don't care, baby, by the way-

Then as more of the drummer’s magic flows through the next song, the atmosphere fills up quickly and unnaturally with bombastic energy. This unfiltered devil-may-care happiness may prove itself to be the height of the band’s entertainment for their audience.

(Because I'm happy)
Clap along if you feel like a room without a roof
Clap along if you feel like happiness is the truth
(Happy!)
Clap along if you know what happiness is to you
Clap along if you feel like that's what you wanna do!

Once the second song is over, the crowd can’t help itself from erupting in cheers, and perhaps those of you in attendance can’t help but throw in your agreement. Perhaps you can already tell there’s magic at work here, but if the trio has ill intentions in how they’ve been using it, they haven’t shown their hand just yet.

“Thank you, thank you all so much! No really…! You’re all too kind!” goes Sonic. “Now… we're gonna slow it down a bit with this next one! And this little tune is called '21 Guns' by an awesome Earth band named Green Day!”

Those with a sharp eye catch the pig minotaur stealing a drink break, a thick and protein-rich shake disappearing in one large gulp as the robot speaks, with time to spare before needing to jump back into his role. Leftover euphoria cools down into melancholy laced with aches and pains. Some might wince at most, some might silently drift back into a memory the song reminds them of, but as the song builds…

It rises. There is hope.

Where one audience member tentatively throws out their voice, one by one another follows. Is it compulsion or collective free will as a large portion of the crowd outright begins to harmonize?

One, 21 guns
Lay down your arms, give up the fight
One, 21 guns
Throw up your arms into the sky
You and I

RUDE AWAKENING

(CW: Intense mental influence, reveal of brain tampering)

[Track: Open Your Heart - Surround Sound Remix; OG Lyrics; Instrumental]

“Well, what did you think? Did it get you hyped? Are you feeling energized?” Sonic says, cheerful as ever.

But to those who know him, it’s clear he’s flagging, just a bit. He turns to sit at his synthesizer, setting aside his guitar for a moment with his back to the crowd. It’s a bit hard to see, but his feeding cables all seem to be jacked into the synthesizer and amps, crackling with bright green sparks.

Then, the music picks back up again, and Sonic turns back around with his guitar.

Open laptops light up on their own, their harsh screens typing along to the song lyrics. It should be frightening, how the song yanks onto your attention and holds it there more than most musical earworms have the right to. Normal music doesn’t do that.

Open your heart, and you will see!

Thunder, rain and lightning
Danger, fog is rising
Clamor, sirens wailing
It's such a bad sign

The land can hear them. And its answer slowly started to roll in overhead.

Shadows of dark creatures
Steel clouds floating in the air
People run for shelter
What's gonna happen to us?

Storm clouds join the fog, bringing drizzling rain and thunder. Lightning flashes in sickening colors. Tension and desperation added itself into the air of intensified emotion.

All the steps we take, all the moves we make
All the pain at stake
I see the chaos for everyone
Who are we? What can we do?

You and I are same in the way that
We have our own styles that we won't change
Yours is filled with evil and mine's not
There is no way I’ll let myself lose…!

Painful, negative emotions ebb and flow against pure adrenaline. Your heart thuds against your chest and in your ears, and your hands shake restlessly. Perhaps it even hurts as a sensation of impending doom looms over your shoulder…

Can’t hold on much longer…
(But I will never let go!)
I know it's a one-way track…
(Tell me now how long this'll last!)

Sonic’s intentionally digitized drone marks the moment when the musical vibes dip dangerously close into dragging out panic and fear.

If it won't stop
There will be no future for us
Her heart's tied down by
All the hate, gotta set it free!

But this same overwhelming intensity inspires an urge to grit your teeth, encouragement toward swallowing down your fear, and a DARE TO BE BADASS.

Open your heart, it’s gonna be alright!

Somehow, Crash’s drumming in particular pounds into the skulls of those that follow the gods, Fog and Fourth alike. It crashes on beat against the touch of the gods festering within. And the more of it there is, especially with resistance toward the cleansing, the greater the migraine that ensues.

An airy breath next to your ear hisses with mere annoyance. A digital consciousness sighs in a fleeting moment yet continues to merrily sing along the best they can.

SONIC BOOM

(CW: Mass crowd panic, electrocution, choking, identity crisis/dissociation. Potential CWs: self-hatred, body dysmorphia, Hollywood DID)

Sonic Boom

[Track: What I’m Made Of; Lyrics]

Sonic rides the high of the panic, and then righteous fury, of the previous song. He grabs his mic from the stand and comes as far forward on the stage as he can while being tethered to his gear.

“That’s right, you know who we’re talking about now– the REAL monster we all have to fight against! You know her! She’s the one who hates you for things you didn’t do! Things you can’t control!”

Sonic pauses for a brief moment as the crowd boos and hisses, their anger at the Fog stoked.

“The one who dragged us offworlders here, changed us into instruments of revenge and pain!”

Rowdy cheering. Sonic is getting pumped. His eye lights burn brighter than ever as he sparks with more of that venomous green electricity. “Well, no more, I say! It’s time to show her… WHAT… WE’RE… MADE OF!”

With an acrobatic backflip, Sonic returns to his spot and replaces the mic with his guitar, and blasts the opening chords. As it goes on, the song drips and oozes with defiance.

Like a million faces, I've recognized them all
And one by one, they all become a number as they fall
(As they fall)
In the face of reason, I can take no more
One by one, they all become a black mark on the floor

Did we mention the hedgie is angry? As the song crescendos and he shreds, his whole body sparks with the same lightning plaguing the peninsula.

Try to reach inside of me

Try to drain my energy

Let me show you just WHAT I’M MADE OF!!!

‘KRACKA-KABOOM

Eldritch lightning crashes down. It surges through the electrical systems and straight into the robot serving as a surge protector for all the equipment.

“... H-h-heh-h-heh,” Sonic crackles. “Th-this stuff j-j-just… t-tickles… really, g-guys. It’s time that we take our lives back… that YOU take your lives back…!”

POWER CHORD.

The power in the mall, and several city blocks around it, goes out with a dying hum. The amps screech with feedback before exploding, sounding almost like a digitized scream that rings across the night. The Bavanites scramble to get the power grid back up and running for the umpteenth time. Nobody wants a monster to take advantage of these large pockets of darkness during their prowls.

But even if you’re one of the attendees at the concert, the immediate aftermath of this disaster isn't necessarily your problem, is it monsters?

No matter where you are on the Ryslig peninsula, you abruptly start to choke as you cough out puffs of the Fog’s magic, until it collects and condenses into some kind of copy of your monstrous self as your own form reverts.

How long has it been since you’ve been in the body you’ve been left with? Would you still call it your own?

Regardless, you're not in the driver's seat of the beast before you. But it’s still you… maybe you have just enough influence to guide its actions, even form a partnership. Or maybe you feel nothing and therefore there is nothing that keeps your other half from trying their new solitary experience.

OUT OF THIN AIR

(CW: respiratory weakness/illness, asphyxiation/suffocation. Potential CWs: suicide, feral stalking, death)

Maybe for some it’s not so bad spending a bit of time apart.

But as the days trickle by, walking around for your usual errands or career, let alone anything more strenuous than that creeps toward becoming insurmountable tasks. A few city blocks feel as exhausting as a marathon. Stamina shrinks in capacity little by little as it fades, like you’re an old battery that can’t recharge the same way it used to.

You gulp and gasp for air and yet it never feels like enough even while your lungs strain and burn for more oxygen.

As the same amount of time is passing, their hollow half-lives grow more and more maddening from feeling as incomplete as they are. They bristle upon your touch or glare hotly within your direction from afar. The effect of the spell is fading and delaying the inevitable angers them. One by one, you former monsters will discover how to rejoin with these hollow constructs. Hopefully before it’s too late.

The easiest answer? You must reconcile the wall of glass keeping you connected yet separate, no matter how small. In this way, as the fog energy construct calms, it’ll lose its substance- dissolving back into a cloud of fog that pushes itself back inside before settling.

Shame that changing back into the monster you once were might not be as painless.

Doing things the hard way, however? You attempt to run, but you can’t hide from death in one way or another. Your monstrous half gives chase. Nothing will distract or stop it. No matter where you may go, you can feel it… feel them. Perhaps from a distance, perhaps from the shadows… you can never escape, not forever, because in the end… any place you think to hide, is a place they’ll think to look. Can you keep running? Can you continue to escape, even as your lungs betray you, refusing to pump air?

Even your last stubborn breath is no escape. They will return to whence they came, even if they have to chase your soul into the sea of stars to do so.

The Fog’s children cannot survive without her breath.

OOC INFORMATION

This is your IC post for March's player plot: What I'm Made Of, running from March 14th through March 21st! If you have any questions, please head on over to the OOC Post for all the details and plotting.

comments

[closed]

Thu, 07 Mar 2024 22:25:14 GMT

Posted by: detectivision

Who: Leo, Donnie, Sherlock, and Bucky, though he's not all there
What: Some guy with bows and arrows is making monsters fight. Sherlock lost, so the effect got kicked out of his system. He's come back, but it's difficult to look after an injured partner who tries to kill you on sight and investigate the guy carelessly shooting incredibly dangerous arrows, so he's called in reinforcements. Who are going to make fun of him. For having Bucky tied up in their shared house. It looks worse than it is.
When: Mid-Huntsman event, February.
Where: Rooftop apartment above the Lou Jitsu dojo
Warnings: Event-standard mind control, severe injuries, past death and possible flippancy about death, we hope not further violence, we do hope stupid jokes.

( Read more... )

comments

MARCH ARRIVALS

Mon, 04 Mar 2024 18:57:10 GMT

Posted by: ryslighelpers

MARCH ARRIVALS

HARD WIRED

(closed to new arrivals)

When you open your eyes, it doesn’t make a difference.

All around you is dark.

Beneath you, the floor is hard, cold, and covered in thin, flexible rubber: cords, if you’re familiar. Insulated wires.

Begin to explore, and you’ll find large rectangular shapes with mesh sides, as well as strange small boxes covered in switches and buttons, keeping company with the nest of cords. Be very careful if you try to walk: it is easy to catch one’s shin or knee painfully on the side of a box, and even easier to trip over something in the inky blackness.

It smells like electronics. And the sound –

– if you listen closely, you can hear thunder rumbling in the distance, ominous and heavy.

Listen even more closely, and you’ll hear – voices? Human voices, chattering away.

Make your way towards the voices, and you will find a door with a handle and a simple thumb-turn lock. When opened, light pours in, fluorescent and artificial: when your eyes adjust, you will see the busy bustle of a shopping mall.

Welcome to the Mall of Bavania – or rather, its storage closet for musical events. But at least now you can get to the rest!

HUMANS ARE SUCH EASY PREY

(For everyone)

Within the mall, excitement is palpable. Despite the rolling banks of fog that lurk outside the building in thick resentful clouds, and how well the humans know that the safe and sane decision is to stay indoors when the fog descends, a surprising number of them have made their way to the mall today.

Many of them are wearing shirts – all homemade, all different – with the same two words:

Surround Sound.

You see, there’s a band sweeping the airwaves playing rock and pop music this place has never heard of, and the humans are going absolutely nuts for it. No one can seem to agree whether it’s a human band or a monster band, but there sure is a rumor that some of them will appear at the Mall of Bavania today! Hopeful humans throng around one storefront in particular, whose windows are full of displays of one permutation of the logo. T-shirts, posters, coffee mugs, pillows – you name it, the words SURROUND SOUND have been printed on it.

The merchandise is being snapped up by eager fans, hoping for a glimpse of who the people behind the music are – but so far, they have been disappointed.

The person who isn’t disappointed is the owner of the shop, Lars Gustaffsen, who spread the rumors in order to make a buck on his unofficial merchandise. He is in his shop, his blond hair slicked back, his clean-shaven face an unfortunate choice given his weak chin, and he keeps assuring any too-impatient humans, "I’m sure they’ll be here soon! In the meantime, have you seen our special Surround Sound combination lamp and wall clock? It’s right down this aisle..."

Anyone hoping to do any ordinary shopping at the mall will face annoying crowds and frustrating lines.

DANGEROUS DAYS

(For everyone | CW: gore, body horror, blood)

The rest of the world is mostly more normal – mostly. The Fog is her usual self: those who are due for more changes will suffer through them, their bodies warping, their skin tearing, their bones breaking and forming anew, as she whispers in their ears that they are becoming what they must become, what they were meant to become. Be born anew, monsters, and follow her will: rip the humans limb from limb, make them suffer, make them pay.

As for the rest, strange thunderclouds hover here and there, sending unnatural and unsettling green lightning lancing through the sky. It’s fine as long as it stays up there, but as the Fog clears on the 9th, the green bolts start to hit power lines, wreaking havoc on the city’s electrical system. All of Ryslig’s major cities will be hit with at least one blackout, Bavan with more – though not all cover the entire city. They last anywhere from a few minutes to several hours, though Bavan’s electrical workers have some experience with this by now, and work with remarkable efficiency. Backup generators, especially in hospitals, do what they do best.

Any visitors to Haftesal, the underground tech city below Vandare that doesn’t permit Fog followers past its gates, may notice enforced brownouts: even this little sanctuary is struggling with the lightning.

Finally, the Fourth’s Mall-Arcade has power, and retains power – though any who speak with Elias about it will notice more tense :) emoticons in the replies than usual, and any who stay there might notice some glitches and forced reboots in the robots that tend the place. Someone’s struggling more than he wants his followers to see.

Something’s coming. Something always is.

OOC INFORMATION

This is your March arrival log! You are welcome to NPC Lars for yourself: he is an opportunistic businessman looking to make a lot of money very fast. Human opinions on monsters are as divided as they have ever been: some will be sympathetic and respect that some monsters demonstrate clear restraint, and others will be angry about the murder of the Huntsman, painting all monsters with the same brush.

comments

W.E.B February-March Catch All

Tue, 20 Feb 2024 17:38:42 GMT

Posted by: heyunderoos

Who: Spider-Man, the young Avengers (W.E.B members)
What: A catch all log for the Young Avengers (and guests!)
When: All of July through August
Where: Around Bavan
Warnings: Super heroics, injuries to minors, post will be updated as needed
Notes:If you'd like your character to be saved or helped by W.E.B put a top level in here! I only ask unless ICly invited, people not find W.E.B HQ.

( Come together to make the world better )

comments

MOD PLOT: THE HUNTSMAN

Wed, 14 Feb 2024 18:17:36 GMT

Posted by: ryslighelpers

MOD PLOT: THE HUNTSMAN

(CW: Poaching, murder, murder of a minor)

Once upon a time, there was a family of poachers. Skilled and committed, they hunted the great beasts of the land to keep their people safe. Bears and wolves, yes, but also the more monstrous kind fell to their arrows and blades. No werewolf, no vampire, no harpy stood a chance. The family was blessed with magic weapons, which allowed them to hunt to their heart's desire. Passed down from parent to child for many generations, legend had it that these weapons could only be handled by those who'd inherited the true hunter's spirit.

Until one day, the twin sisters Valerie and Lupine renounced the family's ways for all of the peninsula to see. The weapons, having gone unhandled for a decade already, knew now that the hunter's spirit had been awakened in someone outside the family tree, and they found new ownership.

A man was born in Vandare, where he lived for a good thirty years of his life. A hunter, the man did his best to provide for his family, but found things growing increasingly difficult as the nature spirits turned against humanity. With the storms, the scared wildlife and the horrors associated with the fog, he had no choice but to move his wife and child to North Bavan to pursue a different life. One hot summer's day, while he was out, a priest of the Fog came knocking at his house in North Bavan, asking for access to their radio. The hunter's wife, intimidated by the priest's monstrous being, allowed him entry and showed him the technology in question.

The hunter returned home to find his wife and child dead: more innocent victims, fallen to those damned monsters. They hadn't even been eaten to sate the unnatural hunger- only killed to prove a point.

He allied himself with like-minded individuals, who were fed up with humanity's suffering. Half a year later, when Val and Pine hosted their spectacular soiree to denounce their family's legacy, the weapons came to him. A knife appeared in his hand, gem-studded handle sparkling in the light. A quiver holding limitless arrows now stood against the leg of his table, and a slim bow lay upon the surface, curious runes carved into the weapon's wood.

It was time to fight back.

LONELY IS THE HEART OF THE HUNTER

(CW: Starvation, mental influence)

On the day of the 14th, when most are distracted by this otherworldly holiday of 'love and camaraderie,' he begins his hunt. He was one of the most well-known of his trade when he lived in Vandare, and his skills are still sharpened to their finest. Dressed in handmade leathers, with furs to keep the cold at bay, he stalks through the streets, masking his scent and his tracks all the way. He stands at 6'3", broad and muscular, yet his boots make no sound when they trod along. As a specimen, he's intimidating.

He begins in Bavan, for it is there where the most beasts can be found, content to move to the smaller settlements later on. You do not hear him coming. You do not smell him coming. By the time you catch movement from the corner of your eye, it's already too late. An arrow whizzes towards your chest, bathed in a curious blue light. Perhaps it gets to your heart from the front, perhaps from your back or even the side of your rib cage. If you are Slime, or any other sort of monster lacking the typical heart, the arrow hits whatever serves a similar purpose, such as the nucleus. You don't feel it piercing your flesh, nor any vital organs. It simply vanishes into thin air, your skin unmarred. Not a single drop of blood has fallen. Was that arrow even real? The one who assailed you has vanished before you can even confront him with what he's done; he strikes from afar, and when you find his perch, he has long disappeared with hardly a trace into the night.

The effects sink in rapidly, within minutes. For some, the magic robs them of their emotions. You become a heartless beast, just as the Huntsman believes you to be. No more love, no more joy, no more grief, no more guilt, no more shame... And no more fear. Nothing is holding you back now. No attachments to your former self. All that's left is logic and instinct.

Others may come to view their fellow monsters as enemies, seeing them through the eyes of the Huntsman: vile, dangerous beasts who would be better off dead. You must fight them. You must kill them. If you so much as lay eyes on a monster, the compulsion will drive you to attack, overpowering your good sense within seconds.

And finally, there are those who are affected by the Huntsman's revulsion towards the devouring of his kind. You may grow hungry, but you cannot feed. Meat or marrow becomes too repulsive for you to swallow, your Faerie circle fails to draw energy, your holy magic cannot make a soul budge from its rightful place... No matter how long it's been since last you fed, no matter how much the hunger gnaws, you cannot be sated.

If your misfortune is at its highest, perhaps you will experience two of these effects. Or even all three.

Even after the Huntsman is arrested on the night of the 19th, you aren't freed from the arrows' hold. The bow is taken into evidence, along with the quiver and the knife. Human spokespeople assure the masses that they'll investigate the weapons thoroughly in hopes of dispelling the magic. Until then, everyone please stay safe.

HEART IS WHERE THE HOME IS

(CW: Asphyxiation, blood)

On the eve of the 21st, the Huntsman is found by the second party of monsters, and he is dealt with. His stolen bow is broken in the battle, and when it is, the monsters struck by its arrows are freed from the grip of its effects.

Are you suddenly filled with remorse for what you have done?

Do you awaken with your hands around someone else’s throat? Can you let them go, or is it already too late? Just how much blood is on your hands? Do you regret it?

Or is the release from the restraint on your feeding all you can feel? Eat your fill, monsters. You've been so hungry all week. It's not your fault. Perhaps the humans brought it on themselves. A week after Valentines, the streets may well be painted in red again.

OOC INFORMATION

This is your IC post for the February Mod plot: The Huntsman! Congrats to both sign-up pools for landing themselves in a tie! As a result, we'll be having two dedicated threads for the chosen characters. Three characters from the mercy pool have been chosen to arrest the Huntsman in the corresponding top-level within, and their players have been alerted. They will subdue him non-lethally, handing him and his (intact) weapons over to the local justice system, on the 19th.

Not all things go as planned, though, as further illustrated in a second top-level. After his trial on the 21st, the Huntsman is set loose once again. Three characters from the execution pool have been chosen to hunt down the run-away prisoner and bring his life to an end, and these players have been alerted as well. Each confrontation thread is set at a maximum of five replies from the Huntsman NPC.

For more information, plotting and questions, see the OOC post. Enjoy!

comments

FEBRUARY TRANSFORMATIONS

Sun, 04 Feb 2024 16:07:48 GMT

Posted by: ryslighelpers

FEBRUARY TRANSFORMATIONS

HER EMBRACE

(cw: body horror, blood, tooth horror, hunger)

February dawns brittle and cold. The snow from December and January is sticking around, but as frost, clear and sharp from partial thaws and re-freezes. There is no soft powder to sink your hands into, no gentleness in the weather. Don’t slip and fall. Don’t cut yourself. This land is not a forgiving one.

The new monsters, the ones who have not yet changed, will hear a voice in their heads, in their hearts, as the wind howls outside their curtains, as the fog curls through chinks in the windows, under cracks in the doors.

I love you, she whispers, hoarse and full of desperation. I love you. Now – change. Become something lovely. Become something beautiful. Sharpen your beautiful teeth. Hone your shining claws. You were always meant to be more than what you were. Become what you are. Cover yourself in crimson. Tear out your beating heart.

You are lovely.

You are mine.

Those who are doomed to change will feel their skin split, feel their hot red blood spill from their bodies and pool below them. Bones break and become something new. Spines elongate painfully, becoming tails or spikes or tendrils. Mouths fill with the taste of blood as fangs replace teeth, pushing out the old and dull to make way for the new, sharp, deadly. Are you beautiful, monsters? Or are you a horror? Or both?

And for the truly unlucky, there is the hunger. The aching, cavernous void in the gut that cannot be filled no matter what one tries, not until they give in, and hunt their true prey. Humans lock their doors and draw their curtains: they know that with the fog comes the greatest danger, and that a new brood of monsters has matured.

WHAT GETS THE BLOOD PUMPING

(cw: organs, implications of cannibalism, organ harvesting)

Now that the calendar's pages have flipped to February, part of humanity attempts once more to capitalize on this otherworldly holiday known as Valentine's Day. Many locals have gotten into the spirit of celebrating love, for it is only too easy to lose a loved one in this cruel, violent world. Remind your partner, your family, your closest friends how much they mean to you by gifting them chocolates, flowers, hearts...

Hearts?

Correct. The symbol of love is the heart, after all! But these are not the simplified versions, oh no. These hearts are anatomically correct. The ventricles, the arteries, the aorta; all these and more are visible on wares like heart-shaped cakes, heart-shaped plushies and heart cookies filled with strawberry jam. And that's not all! Humans are nothing if not willing to take a craze too far. Some butchers sell hearts- actual hearts- to serve as the main dish in a romantic dinner. Surely these came from animals, right?

Maybe not all of them.

There's a black market out there somewhere for more humanoid hearts. Or even monster hearts. Wouldn't it be something to give your loved one a Werewolf's heart? Or even a Demon's heart? Better watch out, dear monsters. A specialized hunter may just come after you, knife in hand, hoping to carve a treasure out from your chest.

THE SOIREE OF THE CENTURY

(cw: reference to October’s self-sacrifice/suicide, reference to poacher style mutilation)

Extra, extra! Read all about it! Breaking news! The newspapers, the airwaves, the radio channels are abuzz with chatter: they say that the place to be, the place everyone who’s anyone has received an invitation to, the party of the decade, the soiree of the century, is the Val and Pine’s Gala, scheduled for Friday, February 9th, and guaranteed to go till sunrise!

Thrown by a pair of young, wealthy Bavanite twin sisters, Valerie and Lupine, the party is billed as a gesture of goodwill between monsters and humans: their family made their money hunting monsters and selling their body parts to the ultra-rich. However, Val and Pine have publicly decried their deceased parents’ trade: their public stance is that the practice of poaching is immoral, and that the humans of Bavan and the monsters brought in by the Fog God must live in harmony for the sake of mutual survival.

To that end, at their gala, they will be displaying the weapons forged by the previous generation: silver bullets, rock-salt shotguns, and the like. The star of the showcase, however, will be a knife and a bow and arrow, said to be imbued with Ryslig’s native magic, with effects even the twins don’t know.

The display, they say, is a gesture of good will: a laying down of arms, a placement of cards upon the table, so that Ryslig’s monsters cannot be caught by surprise by any of these weapons.

The party itself is lavish- almost, but not quite, to the point of bad taste. The ballroom the party is held in is in the twins’ primary residence in central Bavan. It's been done up in every shade from gold to deep crimson: wall decorations, balloons, drinkware, cutlery, even the tables and chairs are a glittering array of champagne, rose-gold, dusky pink, and rich scarlet. In the center of the room, a semicircle of glass cases stand, filled with silver and salt, wolfsbane and – wait, is that just an ordinary taser? That’s a taser.

Simple, but effective.

The centerpiece is a case covered in blood-red cloth. Ask anyone, and you’ll be told that that is where the bow and knife rest, where they will be revealed at midnight. Dance the night away, or take the opportunity to spy on the twins: they have nothing to hide, and have no anti-monster weapons in their home. No secret passages, no hidden armories.

However, if you are very rude, and peek under the cloth into the glass case – you’ll notice something amiss.

The knife and bow are gone.

Perhaps this is revealed before midnight, through the actions of bold and impolite monsters: the human security, well trained but unarmed, can be alerted to the theft. Or, perhaps, it is only at the stroke of twelve, when the poor twins make a speech about monster-human togetherness, thanking the monsters for their selfless actions at the Maw, that the cloth is drawn back with a flourish –

– only to reveal two empty display pillows.

When questioned, the twins will protest innocence and ignorance. They do not know how this could have happened. They do not know where the weapons have gone. They are so, so very sorry, and they will be offering a hefty financial reward to anyone able to find and return the weapons.

The gala, once a bright and cheerful beacon of hope, disperses in a mood of anxiety and uncertainty. What exactly can those weapons do? Why were they stolen? And what does their theft mean for the monster community?

Surely no one intends to use them.

OOC INFORMATION

This is your changelog for February! Newcomers have until May 2024 to finish their mandatory changes! Please see the mod header below for additional information about how characters can affect the Val and Pines party.

comments

[closed]

Mon, 29 Jan 2024 02:14:40 GMT

Posted by: composalvation

Who: Kanade Yoisaki and Makima
What: A monster experiencing her first hunger. Rough times had!
When: After Kanade's post
Where: Lights, Camera, Coffee and beyond
Warnings: Feeding of the energy variety, a whole lot of self-loathing to start. Will update as needed.

( now drag along your tail, Sa-sa-sa-sa-Samsa )

comments

PLAYER PLOT: SUCH SIGHTS

Sun, 14 Jan 2024 17:05:48 GMT

Posted by: ryslighelpers

PLAYER PLOT: SUCH SIGHTS

SUCH SIGHTS

(CW: mind control)

January 14th dawns still and cold and gray. For some unlucky monsters, the predawn light looks strangely blue: a moment later, you realize that the light is not coming from your windows. It is coming from the seams in your walls. The brickwork splits, a crack in plaster that was not there before parts, and a doorway opens to a realm beyond. Bells chime. Chains rattle. In a trance, you step forward, called irresistibly by this place.

Against your better judgment, hardly aware of what you do, you go in.

SHALL WE BEGIN?

(CW: torture (mental))

What do you fear, little monsters? What experience hurts you most? What would it torment you most to be offered, and then perpetually denied? What emptiness lurks in your soul that this place can dig its talons into, opening up brutally and beautifully, and leave you knowing that no matter what you do, it will never, ever be filled?

Some rooms are childhood homes or beloved sites from innumerable universes, ruined and hostile: photographs of friends and family crack their glass frames as you pass, and blood oozes from the walls. The familiar is twisted into the gruesome and disorienting: you fall into a hall of mirrors, your reflection distorts. Perhaps you are reflected as the monster you fear you are – or perhaps, the worst version of yourself, the one you fear becoming, is reflected back.

But that’s impossible, you realize, and when you realize this is not your childhood home, that the person in the mirror is not you: a door appears.

YOU SUFFER BEAUTIFULLY

(CW: torture (physical and mental), potential for blood/gore, death)

Is it pain that hurts most? Or the pain of your loved ones? Do the knives come for you, or for those you are helpless to save?

Do you experience death, or are you forced to watch as those you care about crawl agonizingly toward the end?

How many times have you watched them die? How many times have you died?

That’s impossible, you realize. When you understand that those can’t be your loved ones, that your immediate revival does not make sense, your shackles loosen, and a door appears.

PLEAD IGNORANCE, BEG FOR MERCY

(CW: torture (physical and mental))

Perhaps your room is entirely empty. White walls, white noise. A white chair. There is nothing here to see or do, and no way to track the passage of time. Perhaps for you, hell is boredom – or perhaps it’s all noise, all color, endless screams or endless creaks of a groaning house, robbing you of sleep and sanity alike.

Or perhaps, hell is having something you want almost within your grasp, but not quite there. The one that got away, always disappearing behind the door you saw them leave through and then never saw them again, slipping through your fingers when you beg them to stay; or the pizza you had back home, that no one here makes quite right, and you can smell it, you can smell that it’s that pizza, but you can’t find who’s cooking it, can’t find where to get it.

What do you need, that this place can take from you? Stimulation? Quiet? Someone or something you love? You will never be able to forget that you miss it, and you will never have it.

Until you realize something’s off about this, that something about this doesn’t make sense, that it is impossible. You don’t remember how you got into the quiet room, or the noise room. You haven’t seen your ex, or your mother, or your child, in years, and they certainly aren’t in Ryslig.

A door appears. Unlike the one that brought you here, this one is a good idea to walk through.

PERSONALLY, I PREFER THE PAIN

(CW: torture (physical and mental), blood)

The world outside your little room of suffering is gray and dull and cold. Not freezing, but there is no warmth, no life here. The corridors of gray stone twist and turn and loop back on each other endlessly, but here and there, you find doors, like the one you escaped your torments and into this labyrinth through.

Step in. Step into someone else’s hell. Pull them out, if you can: make them realize none of this is what they think it is, and that they can break free – or be caught in it yourself, be brought under the spell of fear, and suffer alongside them.

Find a way to live through it, little monsters. Shelter in corners, pilfer blankets with only a little blood on them from that house, make what comfort you can. Escape to the God domains. Leave messages in them for loved ones, if you can. And even if you can’t? It will not be forever.

YOUR SUFFERING WILL BE LEGENDARY, EVEN IN HELL

(CW: injury)

In the outside world, the Fog clears. It has been a quiet, still week, with fewer monsters around to raise hell, and the whole world exhales with the lifting of the oppressive haze.

Bells toll. Metal chains clatter against cold floors and hot blood. Blue light pierces solid stone, brick, and plaster: the walls that opened before crack apart once more, and the taken monsters who have not yet found a way out stumble back into their lives. The portals close behind you, monsters, and seal shut: no matter how you try, you will not find a way back in, and all that rests behind that wall is some insulation, some plumbing, and the ordinary world beyond.

Perhaps it’s for the best. Calling to the labyrinth is unwise; you never know if it might hear you and return for you. Lick your wounds, monsters, both mental and physical, and hold each other close: it is the beginning of a new year, and maybe, after the revelations in the maze, a new you.

OOC INFORMATION

This is your IC post for January's Plot: Such Sights, running from January 14th through January 21st! If you have any questions, please head on over to the OOC Post for all the details and plotting.

comments

Setting Up Shop

Sat, 13 Jan 2024 22:16:16 GMT

Posted by: its_all_good_man

What: Saul is putting up flyers!
Where:Bavan City
When: Jan. 13th 2024

[Saul had officially finished opening up his office and he was ready for new clients. He had placed his ad on the network and was hoping that would help him get clients. He would have to use that as his main form of advertising as he wasn't sure how to go about advertising in this world just yet.]
[He knew perhaps suing the Fog directly would prove to be a foolish endeavor but maybe he could simply join the Fourth God and align himself that way. He would have to see if this god aligns with his own beliefs.]
[Until then, he would just continue trying to talk to people and see what they needed. He was a bit more of a counselor than a lawyer at this point, the way he was just talking to people about their problems rather than actually taking anyone to court. In his defense, this place didn't really have a court system.]
[He printed some flyers out and had a staple gun in hand as he wandered about the city, stapling flyers to poles that said:

'Saul Goodman and Associates. Counseling Services. Legal and other help.'

[Perhaps he could just offer a place to go to where people can talk about anything. Counseling didn't always have to be legal. He can help people in more than one way. For a price, of course.]
[Perhaps you could bump into the demon? Maybe knock the flyers out of his hand? Tell him he's an idiot or whatever you want!]

comments

Between Wind and Water

Wed, 10 Jan 2024 17:39:50 GMT

Posted by: dauvkind

Who: any CR
What: Sigrud inviting friends to a boat trip or just to see his lighthouse
When: 10-15th January
Where: Sodfyre & open sea
Warnings: none so far

It was the deep winter and Sigrud finally felt at home. The low temperatures did it mostly, in combination with the different yet familiar landscape of the coast here. Of course, this wasn't quite the same, the sun still coming up every day, the sea not freezing over. But it delighted him to see winter again and wasn't the new shape gained here suited awfully well for it?

He had a ship, he had some friends, he had a home, what better to do than bring it all together? If he sees anyone he knows these days, they'll be invited aboard, for merely a tour or to take a little sailing trip. And while Sigrud is comfortable still wearing the same clothes he did in summer, coats will be provided for those who need it.

A specific invitation goes to Korra, for a fishing trip. The young woman reminds him of his daughters still, so why not see if she shares a love for sea, ice and fishing. He's often enough in Djavulenstad, surely there'll be time to spare.
Another is Faramir, picked up from a port of choice or the nearest bit of coastline. They can talk long on a number of topics, but some Sigrud feels more comfortable sharing out with no land in sight. He can sail by night no problem and ensured there's at least one cabin that can be blocked against light to spare his friends stone-skin the daylight.
And Reira will be asked if she wants to see the lighthouse again, now that he is properly moved in as much as he will. She saw it once already, but then neither were themselves back then, right?

comments

I Can Remember When We Walked Together

Tue, 09 Jan 2024 21:25:00 GMT

Posted by: summonthesuit

Who: Steven Grant, Quentin Beck, close CR, any CR in general really. MINGLE!
What: A Ryslig wedding reception
When: January 10th, evening
Where: A big hotel in Bavan
Warnings: Presence of alcohol, reference to Ryslig-typical cannibalism and death, that's about it.

( Lonely is a Man Without Love )

comments

A pleasant captivity. (Semi-Open)

Mon, 08 Jan 2024 21:13:49 GMT

Posted by: soft_shelled

Who: Donatello Hamato and You (for the network post)/Hill House Folks and Visitors for in person.
What: Stir crazy network post from stuffed animal jail, and also like a prompt for visiting him?
When: Net prompt is Jan 7th, visiting can be from sometime after Christmas till before Jan event.
Where: Hill House, Stuffed Animal Jail.
Warnings: None at the moment? Will add if any come up.

RDOS Post

[On the 7th day of the first month a post will go up, from local user Bootyyyshaker9000 as Donnie sees no reason to go about attempting to be anonymous here.]

< Bootyyyshaker9000 >: So, I'm looking for ideas for things to do when you're stuck in one place for who knows how long... The network has been dull, and one can only do so much coding on these things after all. And I guess I could ask for books, so something other than reading?

( Now for the in person bit )

comments