EVENT ∞ LOG — July 125

[thediadem]

Event ∞ Log

In the Flesh

Jump ⇅ :: Visits — First Contact — Hitchhikers — Notes

∞ Prologue ∞

It's not real, it's not real.

Somewhere in the Blocks, late at night, a young woman repeats the words over and over, fumbling with her room key. She doesn't dare look over her shoulder again, begging her hand to obey. Her fingers are stiff and smooth, and it makes each movement more difficult. Eventually, the door gives way. She stumbles into the apartment, slamming it behind her and locking several bolts.

Leaning back on the door, she lets her key ring fall to the linoleum as she holds her hand up to her face. It isn't just her fingers now. Painted plastic has taken over her entire right hand, spreading up her forearm toward a ball-jointed elbow that creaks painfully. She grabs her neck with her flesh hand, sucking in a sharp breath as she tries to steady her heart.

It's not real, it's not real...

She takes another breath, then turns on the light. The bulb flickers. Hazy light flood the room with an incessant buzz.

She freezes.

A figure stands in the opposite doorway. It doesn't move, stuck in a pose with an outstretched hand—one made of flesh and bone. Her hand.

She screams.

Info & Mechanics — NPC Forum Post — Event Interaction ::: ⇅ Top

Strange Visits

Panorama

For the first week or two of July, life goes on as usual. You have a lot on your plate—jobs, loans, rent, that creep who won't stop staring at you when you're filling up your car—and the last thing you've got time for is other people's problems. Or maybe you find room to listen, anyway? Whatever the case, it's mostly a lot of stories and pointing fingers: a shopkeeper accuses his friend of stealing from him, somebody claims their boss must've skipped town to avoid paying the employees, and a woman is frantic about her missing husband. He never goes anywhere without telling her.

If you decide to look into it, none of the incidents seem connected. After all, people frequently go missing in the Diadem, friends betray each other, and businesses often go bankrupt, leaving their workers to pick up the pieces. Funny thing, though: here and there, you swear you glimpse a figure who isn't entirely flesh. Their features are just...a bit odd. Is it your imagination? When you move in for a closer look, something gets in your way and the figure disappears.

On the other hand, you think to yourself, it's not as though everybody on this planet looks standard. If a man can have horns, why can't his skin also be a bit plasticky?

Use the Event Interaction comment any time you need specifics or some direction for an element you're engaging within the event. This can be an NPC victim your character is questioning, an aspect of the diffusion zone your character is testing, or anything along those veins. While you're encouraged to make things up on your own, too, if you're ever unsure of the results or the answers you might get, approach us there!

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First Contact

The Fringes

Inevitably, you take the risk and head back into the Fringes. It has what you need, and the bizarreness in Panorama isn't making the city feel like much of a refuge, either. Besides, long trips aren't unusual for anyone in the Diadem. As you drive, you might even find yourself reluctant to return to the city. After all, there's so much across the multitude of diffusion zones that regardless of how dangerous it can be, perhaps some part of you is attracted to the thrill of the unknown.

If the promise of loot isn't enough, a note on the Forum might be. Here, you'll scroll across a brief message from who else but the ever-eager Felix Bjurstrom, joined by his daughter, Olive "Ollie" Bjurstrom. (Looks like he's got a new phone again!) If nothing else, the investigative or curious nature in you gets you going. What if this is a piece of the puzzle you need to go home?

If you want your character to scavenge items, check how that works. The Map identifies where each Quadrant is located.

Among the Shadows — Abandoned Mall

©

In Quadrant 1, about a 10-hour drive from Panorama, a standard American shopping mall rises through the cracked and broken highway. A portion of its vast parking lot melts into the road ahead and behind. There are cars in the parking lot, each one perfectly preserved: no rust, no dust, nothing.

The mall's lights are on. The moment you step inside, you'll notice that you're not alone. Inside, shadow corpses are everywhere, frozen in time. Their bodies show no signs of distress. If you try to touch them, a dark, ashy residue coats your fingers. You see a young couple linking arms, a mother bending over to pick up her child, and a man ordering his last meal at the KFC. It's as though they all just...stopped. While eerie, whatever force swept through here is long gone.

The upside is that nobody will bother you while you look around—aside from other fluxdrifts, of course. The shops and their offerings are stuck in the 90's. Big electronics are cosmic touched, rendering them worthless, but smaller electronics like cassette tapes, CDs, and Walkmans are all viable. You can also grab clothes, snacks, and (cheap) jewelry.

And, as you pass by the store windows, you see many mannequins on display. That's normal, so you don't think twice. At least, until you swear one of them keeps moving around the store. Though its pose never changes, it almost appears to...follow you? That can't be right. You must be seeing things.

Zone Effects
Touching any of the frozen shadows will cause the victim to believe that their companion(s) have transformed into monstrous creatures. Attempts to approach you will only register as an attack rather than placating gestures, while words will sound like snarls or spoken threats. An induced panic will make it more difficult to think logically and see through the hallucination. The illusory creatures can take the form of anything that might frighten or threaten you the most.

You can break free of the illusion through a variety of methods, including your own willpower, being knocked out by your friends, or seeing/hearing something that makes you realize it isn't real. The hallucination isn't overly intense, but it can cause a bit of havoc among you and your companions...and increase the likelihood a mannequin might make contact unnoticed.

Wall of Refuge — Strange Temple

©

In Quadrant 1, about a 6-hour drive from Panorama—and on the way to the abandoned mall above—stands a geometric structure made of metal and stone. Sharp angles shoot up from the ground to form a distorted hexagon. The gateway is littered with sigils: some weathered by time, others freshly carved into the rocky surface. They glow when you drive forward, beckoning you closer. Come in, whispers an unknown compulsion in your mind. You are home.

You may succumb to the whispers for any number of reasons: sleep deprivation, desperation for a place to rest overnight, or a need to hide from raiders or dangerous creatures lurking in another nearby zone. Regardless, you give in and enter the triangular entrance. The stone gate lifts to grant you passage, revealing an effigy of a multi-limbed being. A deity? A symbol of power? Though you're unsure, you continue deeper. Your footsteps echo across the cavernous halls.

Behind you, the heavy gate slowly closes with a rumbling finality. Despite the chilly entranceway, the interior of the temple is warm and inviting. Candles line the walls. Fountains flow peacefully. You can enter one of the many rooms to find a soft bed, fresh cakes, succulent meat, and fine wine available for you. Behind a silk curtain is a steaming bath lined with soothing floral herbs and oils.

Meanwhile, throughout your explorations, you might sense a figure or a shadow in the passageway. A glimpse of shiny plastic appears oddly out of place in a temple of this kind.

Zone Effects

• If you are a believer and decide to trust the gifts bestowed upon you, then you may safely indulge. The wine will warm you up, the food will fill your belly, and you can sleep through the night. When you awaken, you can safely leave the temple refreshed. Your vehicle will be outside, untouched, as if some power within was protecting your belongings.
• If you are a heretic and doubt the offerings you've been graciously given, the gifts will begin to rot and all amenities will crumble to dust. The more your cynicism betrays you, the more the temple will take until nothing remains except the oddly textured walls bearing down on you. As you examine the surface, you realize the stone is built from a manifold of dozens—no, hundreds—of twisted bodies. Their arms are raised in reverence, piled upon each other like human bricks. Their gaping mouths are frozen in a silent scream. As for you and your companions...what fate will await the nonbeliever?

The Last Stop — Foggy Town

©

In Quadrant 4, about a 3-hour drive from Panorama, east of the currently unused train tracks, a thick mist rolls through the highway. Here, the sky darkens rapidly into night and the temperature drops. If you've traveled unprepared, presuming the heat in Panorama spreads into the Fringes, you'll find that's not so. A chill spreads into your bones and creeps up the back of your neck.

Then the ground rumbles. The tremors shake your vehicle. Maybe it even makes you lose control briefly or sends you swerving off-road, straight into the fields. And in the middle of the fog, you see it: a figure standing in the middle of the field. Behind it are a few houses, making up a tiny rural town. The houses are dilapidated, many crumbling. Supplies within are minimal, and many items are broken or spoiled.

Do you approach? Do you drive past? Merely staring for a second too long will be enough for the hitchhiker to choose you as its ride, but its appearance may not be all that keeps you in place. In the distance is another bigger shadow. A much bigger shadow. It looms in the distance without true mass or form. Within the void of its body, a searchlight sweeps over the misty town. It does not move. It simply looks while the ground shakes. Each time its light catches a glimpse of something that doesn't belong—an animal, a vehicle that drove too deep into the tall grass, a raider that went too far into town—a sonorous howl reverberates through the zone.

Then the shadow will teleport to its target and crush the intruder without mercy before retreating back to its watchful post. And the intruder is indeed crushed: any living organism caught by the Light Guardian will be flattened with a horrifying crunch of broken bones and squished organs.

Zone Effects
While the Light Guardian can't be defeated or confronted, you can outrun or hide from its sweeping beam. If you stop far enough on the side of the road, it won't notice you...but you can still watch as it mangles an unfortunate raider or traveler. Possibly, you see the spray of blood or hear the screams before you run. Perhaps you realize how easily you could've met your own gory fate.

If you've left your car and gone too deep into the town before you realize the danger, you can do one of two things: you can risk hiding in an abandoned house in the town and hope that the sunrise comes. In zones like this, the day/night cycle is unpredictable, and many places are permanently cast in darkness. Or, you can try to run back to your vehicle and pray you don't get caught.

Alternatively, you've plowed directly into the field when raiders in pursuit force you into the zone. Should fortune favor you, they'll be obliterated by the Light Guardian while you flee. The beam tracks quickly, but can only shine in one direction at a time so the key is to bob and weave.

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Hitchhikers

Anywhere

Not everyone who enters the diffusion zone will pick up a mannequin, but the possibility is there. Once you make first contact, you will gain a hitchhiker. Unlike most aspects of the diffusion zones, this one has gathered into a storm, meaning the effects will breach even normally stable and anchored strongholds like Panorama.

Some fluxdrifts will brush off your problems while a few might believe you. Others will offer solutions in their own way, including a doctor who'll pay to obtain strange plastic limbs. Not everyone will pitch in to help. The city's big, populated, and somebody on the street turning doll-like doesn't affect them (...until it does). They've got a job to get to and mouths to feed.

Unwanted Passenger

When do you first notice your passenger? At any point, really. Perhaps it goes like this:

You glance in the rearview mirror and glimpse a figure in the backseat. When you spin around, there's nobody there. Then it happens again. This time, you realize it's not a person, but a dummy. A mannequin. It's sitting upright. And is it...wearing a seatbelt? Or maybe it's thrown itself across the back bench as though somebody tossed it there, uncaring.

This time, when you look back, it's still there. You pull over and dump it on the side of the road. That's taken care of, you think. You drive some more. For a few hours or even a day or two—depending on how long you've traveled—you don't think much of it. Then suddenly, it's back. And it keeps coming back no matter how much you try to get rid of it.

Or it goes like this:

You return from a standard trip into a diffusion zone. It went pretty well, you think. You found some clothes at a creepy mall and now you're ready to get some sleep. When you open your trunk to retrieve your belongings, you notice a mannequin stuffed inside, limbs bent at odd angles. You're a little weirded out, but you decide to dump it on the street and move on.

You shower. In the bathroom mirror, the mannequin suddenly appears behind you. Over the next few days, this continues. The mannequin appears in a booth across the diner as you're eating your eggs. It's behind a shelf in the corner store. It's in your closet. Each time you check, it vanishes...but then, sometimes it doesn't. Sometimes it's right there in plain view. It'll even let you throw it away, burn it, anything you can think of. But it always comes back.

However it plays out, you realize that people around you do notice it...sometimes. That doesn't mean anyone will believe you that things are just that weird. Most people have better things to do. They don't know you, after all, and even if they did, well, this place does have a habit of driving people a little crazy. Witnesses casually push the mannequin aside and tell you that's a funny prank. Your regular waitress pats your shoulder and suggests you get some sleep. You're not looking well. The shopkeeper demands you take that thing before you go. He's not responsible for your junk.

But there's a small chance you run into someone who seems to be going through what you are. Unfortunately, they seem to actually have it worse and aren't making much sense. Still, you can try questioning them and see what answers you get. At least, before you lose them for good. For some of you, the victim you run into is in especially bad shape...and you have to wonder how long before you end up the same.

Trading Places

For some of you, the mannequins might not do more than be a nuisance. While that's not ideal, either, it doesn't completely upend your life. Others are less fortunate. If you're one of the latter, you'll begin to notice symptoms.

The first time it happens, you're startled to hear the mannequin speak. To begin with, its voice might be guttural and unnatural, incapable of stringing more than a few words together. Then it seems to learn. It talks in full sentences. Its voice smooths out. It starts to sound more and more like you...right down to your speech patterns and accent. As symptoms progress with varying intensity—over days or weeks—you realize with dawning horror that you're losing parts of yourself. When you wash your hands, you notice a part of your skin is smooth and shiny. The next time the mannequin appears, its previously plasticky appearance is more flesh and blood.

Eventually, the mannequin becomes independent. It shops with your money. It steals while wearing a face that looks nearly identical to yours, especially from a distance. It calls your friend and says the things you would never say out loud to them. They're thoughts you've had, sure, but you know better than to hurt your friend's feelings...except apparently, you have. And now you can't even use your own voice to explain yourself. Your leg has been getting stiff. Your joints don't bend properly.

Meanwhile, the mannequin is now striding around smoothly. Its appearance is still uncanny and odd if anyone pays attention, but at a glance, it easily passes as a part of the crowd. As its final act, it's even absorbed small bits of your abilities if you have any. Not all of them, but enough to cause trouble. Throughout everything, you cannot harm your hitchhiker. Some unknown force stops you any time you think about it. You simply can't.

Related Incidents

The impact isn't contained only to those directly affected. The hitchhikers' influence spreads through the city. For some incidents, it's difficult to trace back to the source. For others, that's a little easier. Regardless, these occurrences could help you determine how to solve your own situation. Alternatively, if you've escaped unscathed, you can still find yourself dragged into a situation involving someone else.

Return to Sender

July 11 — The Forum: An anonymous poster contributes this bit of information that might catch the eye of those affected. You can try the same method, but it's a risk going back into the diffusion zones. No one can guarantee the specific zone you found the mannequin in is still standing. Further, you have to remember where you made contact to begin with.

If you decide to try it, be sure to take a friend. The less independent the hitchhiker, the more likely it will stick to your side even as you return it home. If the assimilation has progressed too far, though, you might have to utilize methods such as duct taping inside your trunk or strapping it down with ropes. It may struggle and say vile things to you or your companion.

Victimless Burn Victims

July 14 @ 03:00 — The Pavilion (East End): A handful of troublemakers grabbed some freaky mannequins wandering the street and, in a drunken stroke of genius, set them all on fire for no reason other than that they wanted to. Not only has this resulted in damage to the corner store nearby, but Enforcers have linked the incident to four hospitalizations at roughly the same time. Doctors from Saint Margery's Hospital (located in the Blocks) report that all four individuals suffered massive shock and claim to have endured unimaginable agony as if they had been "set on fire."

Curiously, none of them bear any physical wounds and, by all accounts, are completely fine (trauma aside). Notably, all four individuals were also suffering from various stages of "joint stiffness" and "hallucinations"...which have since completely vanished. You might wonder, is this the solution? Or perhaps the better question would be, is it worth it?

The Sculptor

July 15 — The Pavilion (Medical Clinic): Around July 14 onward, word begins to spread that a Dr. Maggie Wright (who insists on being called the Sculptor, though nobody seems to heed this request) will not only do an amputation for free, she will pay you for your limb if you are boasting an "unusual trophic change to the skin, resulting in a smooth and shiny texture." All she asks is she gets to keep the sample. Her promise is that she will study it to find a more permanent cure and, if she does, she will return the limb to you for reattachment.

Some end up trusting her. You wonder, maybe she could help? Dr. Wright will happily accept you as her patient if you agree. Her methods are indeed proper and sterile: she'll put you under and provide you with plenty of pain meds. She appears to have all of the equipment required to preserve the limb, too.

If you're suspicious, you can also pay her a visit, but you won't have much luck getting her in trouble or sniffing out any evidence of nefarious deeds. Her office hasn't got anything strange, she is indeed a real surgeon, and there are testimonials from patients who've had success under her care in the past. Plus, nobody's going to her who isn't doing so voluntarily (they've signed waivers)—even if you could argue how much desperation plays into their decision. Still...the thing about her "title" is a bit weird, right?

Dr. Maggie Wright is 5'2, Caucasian with a light Northeastern accent and silver hair often worn in a bun. She's in her 50s and looks fairly good for her age. Her voice is soothing. She has intense, wide blue eyes, which some might find unnerving, but that's not necessarily her fault.

∞ Notes ∞

• Mannequin contact is not required. Not everybody who goes into the diffusion will make first contact, and many won't. Characters can explore the mall, the temple, and the foggy field without ever picking up a hitchhiker.
• The diffusion zones described are only examples. Others will exist where mannequins can be found, including grocery stores, gas stations, abandoned parks, and more. You can make up your own, but check with us if you have any questions about limitations!
• The speed and intensity of all mechanics are entirely up to you. Generally, the earlier a character makes first contact, the more severe their consequences.
• Investigating the zones or helping others are perfectly fine ways to participate! Since the hitchhikers are meant to be more insidious, it won't be strange if your character isn't in the middle of the action right away or notices things a bit late.

Questions? Ask here

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Comments

⏾ temple, open

[vestments]

( he pays more attention to the forum than he'll admit to, a recent, semi-formed habit of searching out events, the sorts of things people at home used to seek out mr. knight for assistance with. delicate things that might need a less delicate touch. weird things for the FREAKY GUY to deal with.

the temple doesn't get mentioned, not in the same way the missing girl had been mentioned, but word had spread in its own way, and once he catches sight of it, marc finds himself stopping. he's not sure he even really means to do it, not even when his bike's parked off to one side and he's stood in front of the structure. he knows he's not alone, there are other vehicles parked up, none of them carrying enough signs of disuse or neglect to imply that they've been here for an inordinate amount of time.

it's the sort of detail he notes absentmindedly, that sits at the edges of his thoughts as he finds himself thinking of selima.

he hadn't been looking for a daughter then, but a father and daughter had ended up changing his life (death—?) entirely. it'd been hot and sticky, and he'd been hot and sticky, but it'd been something he'd done enough times for the unpleasantness of it all to be bone-deep familiar.

here and now, he's hot and sticky and clammy, heat having given way to a chill, but it's different. there's no desert, no sand finding its way into every crevice, and no unrelenting sun bearing down on him. no dehydration. no shivers, no headache. now, it's just the discomfort of sweat; then, it'd been blood and sweat combined, and for a long time, he'd never quite been sure if the voice he'd heard had been real, whether it'd been madness, or whether he'd just been delirious.

(marlene had certainly thought it delirium. jean-paul, too. marc, meanwhile, had placed all sense of and belief in self in a statue.)

"come to me and be reborn in my light."
"you will be mine. you will be my hands. my eyes. my vengeance. you will be my knight."

he remembers the words, but it's not what he hears now. home. is he? (isn't he?)

the sound of movement just behind him doesn't go unnoticed, but he does little more than turn his head an almost imperceptible amount. it's not because he assumes there's no danger, it's not even arrogance or ego, it's simply because it holds more of his attention.

it doesn't occur to him, not yet, that it could be someone he knows, and he certainly doesn't wonder why they'd stopped — the same reason he had, oddly drawn in? or because they'd noticed his (still blindingly bright) orange bike? )

—She could be in here, ( he murmurs, seemingly apropos nothing, tone caught somewhere between soft and gruff, as if he's caught between knowing why he's here and having quite entirely forgotten.

and that's it, that's all he says as he walks towards the gate, barely hesitating as the stone gate lifts. )

[heritors]

[ She gets a message from him asking about the girl. Six hours later: they end up in front of metal and stone, drawn to its presence like moths to a flame. It looks nothing like Mount Prism, devoid of the greens and blues — that's the first thing she thinks of.

The second is home.

Which... the mountain had never been a home to her. Maybe a sanctuary. A bastion. The culmination of all of their efforts and desperation in equal parts. So the association should feel strange, out of place like diffusion zones are supposed to be — but she's half a step behind Marc as the two of them approach like this is where they were supposed to be all along. She's starting to think it could have been; that it's not so bad if it is.

There's a hum instead of a proper response, eyes darting from one end of the gate to the other. No hesitation as the gate rises in time with their approach. The inside looks warm and familiar without it looking decadent, and the tension she's been carrying since the six odd weeks seems to ease from her frame step by step ( like she's home; she hasn't been home in years ). ]

... Perhaps we should look around. [ For the girl? For their sakes? Does it matter, anymore? ]

[vestments]

( when he'd died — the first time, not that it differed much from any of the other times &mdsah; it'd been unpleasant. he'd lived a deliberately unpleasant life, the opposite in as many ways as he could get to the sort of life he'd been raised to want. he'd been violent, reckless, and more than once, jean-paul had remarked that marc didn't seem to much care if he lived or died, and marc's had just been to laugh.

when it'd come to it, though, he hadn't wanted to die. he'd been afraid. he'd given away everything — faith, god, people, heritage — in return for a promise of living in the same way he'd been living.

it'd been oddly, embarrassingly easy, and though he regrets it now, there hadn't been even a flicker of doubt when he'd first said yes — nor has it ever occurred to him that it was less a choice than it seemed.

not once, either, had that temple felt like home. he'd stolen a robe and departed immediately, determined to kill raul in kind for what he'd done. this— there's a part of him, louder than he expects, that doesn't want to leave.

the slight chill of the outside world is forgotten as warmth hits, temperate and comfortable. it's a little belated, his looking back towards lucina, and he parts his mouth as if to speak before hesitating.

a beat, then— ) It's quiet.

( he doesn't say that he doesn't recognise the sigils — why would he? none of it's of earth. perhaps khonshu would be able to shed some light, but in all the weeks since marc found himself here, khonshu's been silent.. it'd be disconcerting, unsettling, if marc didn't recall their last interaction. khonshu's I cannot help you. I will await you, my son. when you can take your seat at my side. maybe this is what he needs to—.

(does he even want that? it hadn't been to khonshu he'd prayed, after all — but it is the ending he deserves, he thinks.)

and so, despite it all, despite the pleasantness of it all — or more likely, because of the pleansantness — marc can't help the slow creep of suspicion. the doubt even in the face of food and beds. what god would invite him with niceties? morpheus had tried it and had been faced with the immediate, irrevokable fact that marc doesn't know what to do with happiness. he doesn't trust it.

his footsteps echo against the stone, and he makes his way to a soft, plush, clean curtain — blue! — that separates one chamber from another, much smaller room. he brushes it aside before commenting, voice feeling disproportionately loud in the silence, ) Be careful with the offerings.

[heritors]

[ It's the caution in his tone that seems to bring her back to the present. Not that the tension returns to her — but she blinks at the decor of the temple, her brows pinching together at the effigy that's on the far wall. It's not oppressive, is the thing; grand, yes, silent enough that she can't help but wonder if there's anyone else here, absolutely. But the palace had been like this once. Tranquil in lazy afternoons or early mornings, with sunlight filtering through their windows until it lit up the entirety of the wing, high ceilings and all, with warmth. She remembers ruining the silence with footsteps and yelling as her mother warned her and her sibling not to run in the halls.

( The palace — her home, not the one she came from before arriving here — is rubble now. She hasn't thought of the place in years, not with the startling clarity that she feels now. The last memory she has of it is knowing that once it was out of her sight, she would never see it again. Not like that, half-collapsed and devoid of life. Not if she could help it. )

Behind them, the gate closes. Lucina's entire body turns to watch, and her posture finally rigid again, eyes narrowed. It doesn't feel like a trap, but she's not sure what to make of it either. The nostalgia starts to sit strangely under her skin.

Nothing to be done for it now — she joins him in looking through each of the rooms, each footstep quieter than the next until it's rings less when she walks. There's a tilt of her head as she notices the bath behind the blue curtain — steam rising from the water. The next room is larger, two beds pressed up against the wall, a washbasin set on the nightstand between them.

Quietly, but warily: ] ... Who could this be for? [ Not them, surely. But there's no one else here. ]

[vestments]

( marc is not a patient man. he can do a good impression of one for a time, but it's never been a strong point. he's always been too emotional, too used to funnelling those emotions into anger for anything else. short, snapped remarks, inconsiderate questions — marlene and jean-paul had been subject to them more than most, second and third perhaps only to marc's father — until those questions had shifted to arguments and deliberate fights.

it's the two beds that pull at his discontent first. then it's the two sets of cutlery set in front of the two plates set at either end of a grand table, otherwise laden with too much food and drink for the both of them. some of it's recognisable to marc, familiar and nostalgic in the way that sweet treats and meals eaten only during holidays are, and he hates it.

who could this be for?, lucina asks, and marc glances at her, expression set in a tight, unhappy frown. ) There are two sets of everything, ( he points out, a circuitous way of saying he's pretty sure it's for them.

it's not that he doubts how real this is, not for the moment, it's not even that he questions how, it's the intention. it feels safe, and all marc can wonder is 'why?'

it's wordlessly and abruptly that he spins on his heels and stalks back the way they'd come. he doesn't quite make it as far as the effigy near the entrance before he stops suddenly, gaze shifting left towards a corridor — passage? — they haven't yet explored. movement. someone, he's sure. all he'd caught was a flicker of a shadow, there and gone, and he has no idea if it was the girl or something or someone else.

the question he'd been going to ask, then, the one he'd planned on directing at a statue in an echo of a habit, gets swallowed back down for later. )

—This way, ( he calls back to lucina, before— hmm. the temple doesn't seem like a maze, a labyrinth, not ... yet?, but that quiet distrust that's intrinsic to marc regardless of what reality might say has him reaching in his pockets for the same white marker as before, although this time he doesn't bother with a moon. this time, it's a small '1' written on a wall, for his reference, just in case they end up going in circles.

—or something else. )

[heritors]

[ The implication that this is for them only makes her mirror his frown. If he won't ask the how, then she will; her gaze flits to each nook and cranny she can see from their spot, looking for monks or acolytes or — anyone. Catches the little bit of movement out of the corner of her eye and whips around just as he does, and the soft lights and the warmth feels ... not wrong, or fake, just foreign. Alien.

There's nothing that says each of these zones have to make sense, she knows. Nothing that says there has to be people for the food to appear. But things are easier to digest when they're tangible — even if it's androids tending bars, or stores that lock from the inside and outside. Her teeth worry the inside of her cheek when she can't help but wonder if the memories of her home were wholly her thoughts and her thoughts alone.

None of the questions have satisfying answers — hells, even if she did find it, there's no guarantee that she'll like what she discovers. The door's closed though, and she's not exactly interested in leaving, so &mdsh; she follows Marc's cue and follows with feather-light steps behind, raising both eyebrows at the shimmering '1' on the wall. ( Is this desecration? Or— )

They check each room methodically. It's ( surprisingly, unsurprisingly ) more of the same. What looks to be a prayer room with two pews for them to kneel on, but the alter is empty; a kitchen that's been cleaned until each countertop is spotless; a storage closet ( or so she thinks ) with meager cleaning supplies and boxes of candles. Then of course, the bedroom, the baths, and room with far too much food than what she'd ever feel comfortable eating between two. She takes an apple.

By the time they're standing by the effigy again, she can't help but feel like they're being watched. It feels comforting and suffocating all at once, the weight of expectation and trust and—

She sniffs the apple. She wants to believe it; of course she does. So she takes a bite, chews, swallows. ] ... It's delicious. [ So why doesn't she sound happy about it? ]

[vestments]

( by contrast, it's not the strangest place marc's ever encountered. in many ways, it reminds him of the mission — the house of shadows — the alien, incomprehensible so-called building from somewhere else entirely. it'd acted not entirely dissimilarly: incorporated itself into an existing building, invited people in — not strictly because it'd wanted to eat them, although that'd been the outcome for the longest time, but because it'd been lonely. because it was a house but it wasn't a home, and men like stephen strange had done little but banish it from earth again and again and again.

he wonders if that's what's going on here — it'd referred to itself as home, hadn't it? and like the house of shadows, it's provided sustenance, albeit more than the house of shadows had. that hadn't wanted marc fed, that hadn't wanted marc to be capable, it'd wanted him to be weak enough to feed on — until, of course, marc had proven himself a poor meal and before he'd understood what it'd wanted.

not a meal, but to be accepted. to be wanted.

each room they venture into gets a corresponding number on the wall. it's not strictly out of distrust, but it is of doubt, and when they circle back round to the effigy, marc's said little more.

he does cast lucina a glance when she takes an apple, eyebrows arching as if to say well, I did warn you, only for the expression to edge towards abashed once she swallows and appears to be fine. (that doesn't mean anything, he tells himself—). he gets it, though, the lack of contentment with something that, against all odds, is good. it's not a trait he's necessarily pleased to see mirrored in anyone else, but he understands it.

and so he mms, a quiet, considering sound as he redirects his attention. for the briefest of moments, he considers kneeling. it's fleeting, momentary, and quite abruptly, he thinks better of it. what he does do is reach out, fingers pressing against stone curiously. it's not like the statue of khonshu he'd had brought back to the states, neither the real one nor the one that marlene stated she had made in its stead — which was which, marc had never sought to confirm. it's rougher, but there's still the same feeling, the sense of being watched— )

—Hey. ( sudden, seemingly apropos nothing, gruff with every inch of marc's working-class roots present in tone and accent. it's not that what he's shown to lucina is feigned, per se, but the politeness is a deliberate, conscious decision, one that's less marc spector and more — well, at one point, it'd have been solely steven grant, but these days steven has his own social circle. these days, it's more mr. knight, a facade designed to be more pleasant than either marc spector or moon knight.

he's never bothered with politesse with khonshu, and he'd done nothing but question and doubt his father's god. why should this be any different? ) You called this home. Is that what you want to be? Because I've met things — places — like you. Few of them like me.

But we can test that if you don't want to tell us why we're here. ( a beat, and then a little softer— ) I know communication isn't exactly easy.

( and yet.

attention fixed on the effigy, marc doesn't notice if there are any other shadows behind them, any other figures at the ends of passageways, nor what lucina's doing. )

[diademnpc]

The Resident
A monstrosity that does not appear to hail from any familiar world, he stands nearly ten feet tall and is highly aggressive with four arms and a split jaw filled with needle-sharp uneven teeth. His flesh appears smooth but has a sharp grain not unlike a shark's. His presence is heralded by a heavy, acidic musk. Is he native to the planet or is from a place too terrible to name? For many who encounter him, that may be the last question on their minds as they stand frozen in terror. Though fearsome, he is blind and relies on smell and sound to track his prey.


There are not shadows behind them, but something does move above them. Whatever it might be, it is large, but passes peacefully with the sustained illusion. Whether or not they notice it and deign to look upwards, a patch of something round and faintly luminescent hangs from the ceiling. After a short moment, one dislodges and falls to the floor with a wet splat.

A thick ooze wets the floor around the impact, seeping towards their feet. A strange flexible sac lays before them, about the size of a plump watermelon and pulsing in time with a faint heart-beat. An egg. The semi-translucent membrane shows movement. Something wriggles inside. And when they look upon it...they will feel a strange warmth course through them. Something akin to affection.

You can:

• Protect the egg. The need to protect the egg might be too overwhelming to ignore, no matter how strange the egg and situation. Their only goal becomes ensuring the wellbeing of the egg. They will forgo sleep to stand and sit vigil around it. If they believe it needs sustenance, they may choose to offer their own supplies (or maybe even blood?) to the egg. Anything put next to it will be drawn in by cilia that grow and reach out from the membrane and absorbed.
  
  Eventually, the egg will hatch and the spell will be broken. The temple will return to its ruined reality. At this point, they can decide to either kill the offspring or leave it be. In the corner, they may glimpse the Resident waiting in the wings. It does not attack but rather seems to express a yearning fear or desperation. It would like to retrieve its child if the characters will allow it.
  
  
• Abandon the egg. It will pain them to do, like they are leaving behind a beloved pet or family member. Each step they take away from the egg will be one of agony, a cry growing louder and louder in their head. It doesn't want to be alone, left to fend for itself in a terrifying world. The illusions of the temple will shift into something more horrifying, the carvings on the walls becoming bodies writhing in pain as they try to climb away from one another, but are unable to disassemble from the mass.
  
  The characters will need to run, which puts them at risk of bumping into any lurking mannequins. However, once they exit the temple, the protective spell from the egg will collapse and they will be left with a painful headache, but nothing else.

If they let the egg live in either scenario, they will see the following as they are leaving or if they look back: in front of the temple's entrance, the Resident will stand cradling its new offspring. Both parent and child look perfectly calm and happy. If you have any questions, please let us know.

[heritors]

[ She doesn't get much of a chance to respond any of it. The raised eyebrow, his attempt at a parlay at the effigy, the constant, sinking feeling of wrong and home that shouldn't co-exist. ( Or maybe it should. Or maybe one exists because the other is there, feeding into each other. Her home is gone, after all, and yet— )

She inhales, sure, preparing to find the words in case the temple deigns not to respond, but several things happen at once instead: the apple in her hand turns to mold and dust; she flinches back at the shadow that passes over them; the numbers he's written disappear with the curtains and everything. Something drops between them and the effigy, and her body stiffens. The first thought is ambush. ]

Marc— [ Except ... that's not quite right, either. Nothing's moving. A part of her tries to hold on to the vigilance that should be the norm, while the rest of her dismisses the notion entirely ( like that's natural ). Swallows down a lump in her throat and exhales as she takes a step, then another, until she's standing right in front of the egg. Drops down to a knee, the dust on her fingertips long forgotten as she reaches out. ]

... It's warm. [ Pulsing. Her chest clenches at the feeling of something responding to her touch, the initial spike of alarm morphing into — shame? Maybe? That her instincts would dare suggest it could harm her somehow, precious as it is. But that stops mattering pretty quickly too.

Her voice gentles. ] Do you think it's alright?

[vestments]

( the way the temple shifts around them is startling, but it's not what marc would call a surprise. he's used to buildings that change, reality that doesn't stay quite as it first appeared, and though his eyes widen, and though he whips around from the effigy to turn towards lucina, there's nothing of him that's less at ease than before — that is, until he notices the smell. until he catches the flicker of shadows beyond the both of them. his jaw clenches and he reaches instinctively towards his waist for his truncheon.

(he'd prefer his crescent darts, but he hasn't yet found anyone to make them—.)

the plop that punctuates the falling of the — egg? and the necessity to take a moment to comprehend what's just happened means he makes no rash actions, doesn't throw the truncheon in the direction of the shadows (that'd be stupid—), means he doesn't make any effort to pursue them, either. instead, he falters, just briefly, and this time the bemusement is evident in his expression.

belatedly, he realises lucina had said his name. he still doesn't answer, but he does drag his gaze away from the egg to look at her, features shifting towards uncertainty. whatever it is, it's alive, and he wonders if it was just here waiting for them. (it must have been for them, because he knows without a shred of doubt, that he must watch over it.)

he steps next to lucina, the sound of his footsteps muffled by dust and ooze, and he frowns as he reaches out to touch it himself. what do eggs need to hatch? warmth? but as lucina said, it is warm. )

It's not cracked, ( he answers, tone a mirror of hers. the effigy's all but forgotten, as are the shadows, and so is the girl they'd come here to find. he drops his truncheon, the metal clattering loudly against the stone floor and rolling a short distance away, the white dirtied with dust and sticky from whatever viscous liquid coats the floor around the egg and them. ) The — heartbeat's steady. ( at least, that what he assumes the pulsing to be. )

—It'll need feeding when it hatches.

( said with certainty, even if he's not certain. what it is, though, is an indirect 'we should wait'. )

[heritors]

[ Who else is it for, if not them? The alternative leaves it to fend for itself alone in a place that's cruel and unforgiving. She can't allow that. ( You deserved better from me than one sword and a world of troubles, her father had said; she doesn't even have a sword to give. ) ]

We have the food in the car. [ It's mostly things that can keep for a few days to account for the journey, enough for the both of them ( but not much more than that ). Rationing it shouldn't be too difficult; it will be growing, after all, and the odds are already stacked against it. The least she can do is survive on a little less for a while. The concept of it isn't new.

— But it's also outside. Away from the slow, steady pulsing under her hands and the the fragile little movements. The thought of stepping away feels — well, it feels. Too instinctive to be guilt even if the weight that settles in her gut isn't entirely dissimilar. There's no reason she can't trust Marc while she steps away for a moment. She trusts him, she does.

This has nothing to do with him and everything to do with —

Lucina shifts in her seat. The pads of her fingers run across the side of it, eyes tracking the vague shadow of a shape inside the egg. ] Should we go get it?

semi-wildcard

[faithfall]

[ The longer this all goes on, the worse it gets. Adrian spends the vast majority of his days at the clinic, pulling double shifts whenever he can get them. A part of it is the money — they need it, as Fern has reminded him — but the other part is that business is booming, as the clinic manager has enthused. The clients can more than afford it... mostly. If Adrian has slipped his number to those who can't, no one has to know.

Regardless, every day he sees more people with plastic appendages, plastic limbs, some serene and accepting and some in seemingly unbearable agony. There's no rhyme or reason to it, just people who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, who had lost some divine coin flip without ever being aware of it. Martin had named Raphael the archangel of medicine, but when Adrian reached out to him on behalf of his patients, his silence remained unchanged.

Solutions had surfaced on the forums instead. Some said removing the limb might work, while others swore by walking backwards with a mouth full of salt. The only solution that people seemed to mostly agree on was burning and that was, by all reports, agonizing.

Still, Adrian had added a flask of gasoline to his bag of spell components. It would be best if he didn't bring home a mannequin of his own, and this was a reasonable precaution during his few trips out to the mall. Even all these weeks later, that girl is still missing. At the very least, they owe it to her to keep searching.

He stops at the temple only to stretch his legs and refuel on his way, but that garishly orange motorcycle parked outside is impossible to miss. Marc must be here. He'd promised not to enter the temple alone but... This would mean that he isn't alone, technically. He should look in. It would be rude not to.

The fact that he can almost feel the warm tug of an invitation from within is — incidental. He knows, after all, where these sorts of invitations lead. He places a hand over the pact mark between his collar bones even as he crosses the threshold.

He spots Marc almost immediately. ]

Ah, I thought you might... [ He trails off, falling silent. At a glance, the flickering shadows in the far corner of the room had looked like Marc (had they been... shiny?), but there isn't anything there, now. Just a strange shadow that his mind had cast into the role of something else entirely. Perhaps he's simply tired. Perhaps not.

Feigning unawareness, Adrian turns toward the statue with its many arms outstretched in welcome (and its banquet table set). How bows his head in greeting. The welcome makes him nearly as uneasy as the gate that closes behind him.

When he speaks again, it isn't in the common tongue, but the language of the Upper Planes. He speaks it rarely; everyone he knows finds it unpleasant to listen to, even if they don't understand the words, but it's the language that he uses to communicate with his patron and those like him. ] Generous host, have I mistaken your invitation?

[vestments]

( he'd come back to the temple, not because he thinks that's where it'd started — although that seems most logical — but because it's, absurdly, the closest thing to familiar marc's encountered to date. no, that's not in the sense of things, in terms of objects, but in terms of experiences. he'd passed by the first time, and it'd called to him like it was home, and marc isn't sure what he'd last thought of as home, before the mission, before greer and reese and soldier.

(grant manor—? steven's, really, not his. it was what steven thought of as home, and marc had destroyed it.)

he tells himself it's for the girl, and he's not lying. it is, but that's not the only reason. he hasn't admitted, not even to himself, that he's lost part of — is losing? — himself. flesh turning into plastic, stiff and painful and unpleasant, all the while something wears his face (mask—) and his suit, pretends to be acting in khonshu's name. riding a motorbike hadn't been easy, but he's succeeded at more questionable actions in worse conditions (probably), and the roads themselves are lacking in the sort of traffic that'd be enough to make marc mindful, and so here he is.

he doesn't hear adrian arrive — the sounds of vehicles outside the temple don't travel deep enough, and more pressing matters have his attention. it's not the food, it's not the shadows, the maybe-creatures lurking in the darkness of the temple, it's the invitation, the implication of answer me and I'll give to you. he'd given to khonshu, and he's regretted every damn moment since—.

adrian's voice, distant enough for the words to be indiscernible, is what draws him from the chamber he'd gravitated towards. the food all but ignored, impatience —anger! — had led him to search without care, to yell into the void variations of the question what do you want? — all of which had come back unanswered until he'd lapsed into petulant silence.

his footsteps echo as he approaches adrian and the effigy, gait uneven and heavier than usual, his features twisting into a discomforted scowl as he catches the tail-end of adrian's words. he comes to a stop a short distance behind adrian, gaze travelling the height of the effigy before he asks, )

What are you doing?

( although it's not clear if the question's directed at adrian or something else entirely. )

[faithfall]

[ Adrian's mouth presses into a thin, unhappy line, though it isn't in response to Marc's voice. It's in response to nothing, in fact. ]

Speaking to a god who, despite inviting me here, does not not wish to respond. [ His tone is modulated by the kind of careful restraint that leaves one to wonder if it's a bitter complaint or a simple statement of fact. Adrian presses the hand flat to his chest, inclines his head politely as if excusing himself from a social obligation, and then turns from the statue. ] I saw your motorcycle outside so I thought you might be in here. Do you know this god?

[ Perhaps a better question would be are you familiar with but he isn't thinking of that right at this moment. He looks Marc over with a critical eye; though he doesn't say anything about it just yet, he makes no attempt to hide the fact that he's assessing for injuries. ]

[vestments]

( it's an odd way of asking the question, and the glance marc gives adrian before responding is sidelong, appraising in its own way, even if the quick, muttered, ) What, personally? ( appears to be mostly thoughtless.

he ignores the way that adrian looks him over in turn. it's an expression he's familiar with — jean-paul had worn it often, albeit accompanied with the sort of wry resignation that came through familiarity of its own, in knowing that marc would inevitably downplay or ignore any injuries he'd sustained unless marc's temper got the better of him.

jean-paul, however, had the benefit of knowing marc for a decade. had the benefit of fighting alongside him for years, in warzones and new york alike, and knew marc almost better than marc knew himself. fortunately for adrian, perhaps, marc has rarely ever been a subtle man, and the way he holds himself now is with more care than he had the first time they'd met. it's stiffer, more awkward, thanks entirely to an arm and a hand that, technically, is his, but is otherwise wholly alien. smooth plastic, rather than human skin; it's there, too, in the slower steps, the ones that could indicate long forgotten injuries returned with a vengeance — broken knees — but could equally be something else entirely.

marc being marc, all of it's hidden beneath his layers of clothing, and he chooses instead to continue the god conversation with a brusque, more openly disgrunted than adrian's careful utterance, ) The only god that speaks to me is locked away on Asgard.

( a couple of steps, then, to come to stand alongside adrian and, )

This one probably thought better of what interfering would mean.

[faithfall]

[ Adrian shrugs, as if to say why not? It's not really surprising that a god would ignore a warlock like Adrian, but surely it's different for someone like Marc, with his vestments. Even violence is a form of devotion, and higher powers want nothing less than that.

The only god of Asgard that he knows is Tyr, who now belongs to Faerûn's pantheon in truth. Still, it's curious that they have any commonality. He's noticed that with more than one person. Adrian cocks his head to the side. ] I've been meaning to ask — are you a cleric of some sort? Who is this god of yours?

[ He doesn't think the question is forward in the least. Most religious men love to speak of their gods, given the chance.

Even despite his casual tone, Adrian's gaze seems to catch on Marc's arm, on his knee. A life steeped in violence is often haunted by an echo of pain, so he can't be entirely certain that these are new injuries and not old ones, but the flash of something he'd thought he'd seen earlier lingers at the back of his mind.

One thing at a time. He suspects that Marc will get fussy once he asks after those injuries, and he wants to indulge his curiosity first.

Adrian turns back to the statue, though he's still addressing Marc. He folds his arms, but one of his hands rises to rest at the center of his chest, fingers slightly curled, as if they mean to hold something that isn't there. He can feel his pact mark hidden beneath the fabric of his shirt, cold even now. ] Is your god so possessive of you that they would come into conflict with others? You certainly live dangerously, for someone so coveted...