redshiftlogs | september 2019. welcome to the void.

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september 2019. welcome to the void.

Who: Everyone in Anchor.
What: Third Introductory Mingle
When: The Month of September 2019
Where: Around and outside the city.
Warnings: Please add any warnings in the subject lines.

Redshift: Welcome to the v͖͕̺̲̘̱̜͎o̴̦̣̠̦̘̹͞i̯̖d̛̪̬͈̱̦̝͍̕.

Click here to read what characters will experience when arriving in Anchor.

a. turrets.

That power surge kicked off some sh... stuff, all right. It took a while for the systems to cycle back on, but two new areas of Anchor are now accessible and usable. One of them is nice and relaxing and safe, and we'll get to that one in a minute. The other one, addressed first, is not very nice and not very relaxing and definitely not safe.

The internal defense systems on the upper levels have come to life, and have targeted anyone within their range as a hostile entity. Get ready to run the gauntlet if you want to turn them off - you'll have to dodge lasers, bullets, and aggressive defense bots (that can be rewired and/or rebooted to assist characters instead of trying to murder them). The reward? Getting to the heavily protected (think many many murderbots and lasers) security control room. If you can make it, you'll be able to reboot the internal defenses, turning off the aggressive targeting and having access for the first time to surveillance of almost all of Anchor. Those areas your characters didn't know were there? Revealed. Those dense patches of jungle-like growth in the agricultural center? You've got a spotlight into their heart.

Though, huh, not all the cameras seem to be working. What's with those screens that show up from time to time that are nothing but static?

Oh well, doesn't really matter, does it?

b. hot springs episode.

One of the areas adjacent to the bar and intimacy lounge has been sputtering on and off ever since the power surge. One evening, with a loud crack and a humming sound that slowly dissipates, the lights come on and water starts flowing down the artificial waterfall into the fountain out front. The spa is back online!

The lobby is inviting and zen, with holographic walls that depict scenic locations (some of them very unlike Earth), with fountains splashing delicately on either side of the door. The attendants are slightly malfunctioning bots, but the most harm they'll do is bring you six towels when you ask for one, or a bucket of massage oil to work on those knots in your back with.

There are three areas in the spa, each of them fully-outfitted with towels, robes of all sizes, fuzzy slippers, the works. One has all the amenities of a Turkish bath, right down to the fantastically arched roofs and mosaics of Istanbul. One is designed not unlike a Japanese hot spring, though the spring is heated artificially rather than naturally. The springs are large enough to be communal in some areas and small enough to be private in others, varying in depth from deep enough to swim on one end and shallow enough to sit on the bottom on the other. All hot springs have a stone shelf around the edges where those who don't want to swim can sit. The last area is more Western, with steam rooms, saunas, massage tables, and mud baths for the adventurous.

One thing all of these areas have in common: the settings on virtually everything can be adjusted to taste. Not in the traditional way, either. The steams and waters can be tweaked to be soporific, can serve as muscle relaxants, can ease anxiety, and can even bolster moods. None of these effects are involuntary, and none of them are brought on by drugs - it's more an advanced mix of pheromones and harmless compounds that can affect a single person or a given pool or room. Also, the baths and hot springs have adjustable bubble settings. The water colors can change, some of them even allowing characters to dye their hair the color that's been selected for the tub without staining their skin. Bubbles of all kinds can rise up out of the water, from the foamy comfort of childhood bubble baths to hovering golden bubbles that chime when you pop them. Characters can choose from a variety of bath salts, scents, and oils - the spas were designed not just for relaxation, but for pure and simple fun.

c. joe's dirt.

So you've survived the security malfunction. You've washed off the dirt and anxiety at the spa. But the newly reactivated security stations throughout Anchor have revealed something odd. There's a blip in the power systems in one area of the agricultural level, like something is siphoning off power from the main lines. Tracking down the source in the deep tangle of underbrush won't be easy, and there may be a few mutated, fanged, clawed cattle that maneuver shockingly well between the trees, but eventually you'll come to a breach in Anchor's wall. At first it just looks like a crack, but it's large enough to squeeze through and there's the darkness of an open space behind it. A tunnel, leading down into the earth outside, well below surface level and thus largely safe.
Wires run along the roof and floor, though the tunnel itself is dark. Walk long enough and you'll come to a wider space, open enough for two or three people to move around comfortably at the same time. It's still dark, lit only by screens that show the same security feeds that are available at the stations throughout the city. And others. Angles on the surface that show Anchor from a distance, and other visuals that don't show Anchor at all, trained instead on massive structures or formations or lakes out on the surface somewhere. But there's something more disturbing: there are cameras set to record some people's rooms. And the only rooms that are shown are occupied.

Someone has been here, recently enough to track where new people have moved in.

On the floor in one corner, there's a crumpled photograph of a man some might recognize as Creepy Joe, happy and whole, with a little girl sitting on his shoulder. It looks like it's been stamped into the dirt.

Navigation.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ Reynir blinks a few times at that. He's a straightforward sort of person, so he immediately and plainly asks: ]

Why would you assume that?

[ It seems strange to him, to just jump to the conclusion that his area would be unpleasant. Especially since this is apparently the first he is hearing about how dreams work for mages. So to automatically think that... it seems to suggest Carlisle is troubled in some way, and if so, Reynir wants to know about it. Maybe he could help!

If Carlisle had merely said he would prefer not to have visitors, Reynir would have respected that (at least, unless there was an emergency). But he's worried now that something is wrong. So he sets the tea in front of Carlisle, steam curling up from the mug, and takes a seat near him. ]

Okay. I guess I won't try, if you don't want me to. But even if I didn't find you, I don't think it would've been a waste of time to look or anything. It's super nice, meeting another mage! I haven't had a lot of people I can really talk to about all this stuff.

[ And Reynir smiles, earnest, good-natured, friendly. He nods to the tea cooling in front of Carlisle and says: ]

I hope you like it!

[Carlisle tries to address Reynir's concerns as he eyes the tea before him, procrastinating on facing the obvious problem of drinking he'll have to deal with shortly.]

Neither my dreams nor my mind have ever been generous to me. I see no reason that would change now. [Especially now. He wraps his fingers around the mug, feeling only the barest amount of warmth through his gloves despite the steam rising from the top. Even then, it's not warmth as he's used to -- it's more the feel of the heat butting against the energies keeping him animated, the sensation of two incompatible forces colliding. He feels the heat radiating from the mug in a sterile, clinical sense, and nearly nothing more.

He tries to get away from his fear of that detachment -- and what it means for him -- by moving to (figuratively) warmer topics.]

But let us not worry about my dreams. It is good to meet someone else capable of spellcasting. Most that I have met so far have been technologically inclined rather than magically.

[ Oh no! That doesn't sound good at all. Reynir frowns, a worried little expression that would doubtless be more severe if he had ever had a single nightmare in his entire life. But while he's had a few frightening moments in the dream space, and an extremely alarming vision of the future or two, he's never had an honest-to-goodness nightmare. And his mind, for the majority of his life, has been very kind to him. So he doesn't really get it, even if he does get that Carlisle's unhappy.

He can tell Carlisle is trying to end the conversation about dreams there, and part of Reynir wants to insist on lingering, until he figures out if there really isn't anything he can do to help. But... Carlisle is a guest here and he should probably let it go, for now. ]

Yeah. I'm really out of my depth, too. We've got some of the technology from the Old World still around, where I come from, but even most that stuff is pretty new to me.

[ He's not rich and he's not from the city. The house he grew up in has electricity, but not computers; it wasn't until he was on the expedition that he used a radio all that much, and it was certainly the first time he'd driven a vehicle that wasn't a cart with a horse attached to it. ]

By the way the uh, constructs. I can see how they would be really scary but uh, I don't think they're actually dangerous. Pretty much everyone I've talked to here is fine with them.

So I have been told.

[Unfortunately, someone telling Carlisle the robots are harmless and him believing they're harmless are two very different things, and Carlisle is the type to cling to his own opinion until directly proven otherwise. Even then, he may still cling to it out of pure paranoia or stubbornness, especially when it comes to something he naturally distrusts like constructs or the undead.

He stares down at his mug, having not attempted to take a drink -- or even remove his mask.]

I assume that 'Old World' you mentioned is the one beyond the borders of safety, the one ravaged by the illness.

Oh. Okay!

[ This really isn't going how Reynir had wanted it to, at all. He had wanted to reassure Carlisle, but... he gets the feeling he's missing the mark. And he hasn't even touched his tea. Reynir sips from his own mug, his smile growing faintly worried around the edges. He'd been so excited to play host and he's just sucking at it, isn't he? ]

That's how we talk about the world as it was before the Illness, actually. When we're talking about the present day areas that aren't safe, the name we use is 'The Silent World'.

[ Reynir rubs at his neck. Probably explaining this next part is only going to make the vibe in this room even worse, but: ]

It's not, really. Silent, I mean - not for mages. We can sort of. Hear the voices of all the trapped souls of the people that were infected and transformed. So it's. Pretty loud, in some places. It's just that regular people can't hear anything.

[Carlisle shifts uncomfortably, grimacing. He has trouble enough stifling his own thoughts, be it through meditation or intoxication; the notion of hearing the souls of others trapped all around him, a cacophony of damnation that only a certain few could hear, is beyond unsettling.

And yet Reynir seems so... chipper. Relatively upbeat, even when talking about what Carlisle internalizes as torture. How he maintains that is an utter mystery.]

That sounds absolutely dreadful. Why is it that only mages can hear them?

I don't know.

[ Maybe he would, if he had been allowed into the more advanced classes at the Academy, but he kind of doubts it. There's a lot more focus on how and not much on why. ]

I grew up in the one country that is completely troll-free, so I'd never heard them before a few months ago, when I went into the Silent World. It's not like you can hear them everywhere on the planet all at once. You have to be pretty close by.

[ He gives a small, jerky little shrug, still rubbing his neck, at the comment that it sounds dreadful. No point in denying, that. The only way to keep the conversation from getting too horrific is to be vague about the details. Not to tell Carlisle how they scream and beg and just want to die so badly. ]

It's... useful for knowing where they are, so you can avoid them, but it's. Pretty awful, yeah.

[Only able to detect them when near; infected and transformed and trapped in their own bodies. Carlisle cannot help but wonder what torment it would be for a mage like Reynir to have been in Bear Den. Could they hear the undead of other worlds? Or was it only these "infected" he spoke of? What would he have heard from a Revenant?

If nothing else, at least he doesn't seem to be hearing anything now, or Carlisle assumes as such. Reynir seems fairly guileless; were he hearing something, he would make it known. There is some comfort in the thought that even as an undead, he may be less tainted than some plagued soul from another world. There are other variables, of course, but Carlisle will take what he can get in this... transitional time in his (after)life.]

What do your deities think of the infected?

[ 'Guileless' is putting it mildly; Reynir doesn't have a deceitful bone in his body, or even a half-deceitful one. He sits there, sipping at his tea and allowing Carlisle to think it over, even though he's still bursting with curiosity, himself. But before he can get to ask anything more, Carlisle is presenting him with another huge, rather existential question that he just doesn't have the answer to.

Reynir tries to think, though. If he remembers anything from the legends he was taught, about the opinion of the gods on those who are infected. He doesn't want to just speculate and present that to Carlisle as fact. Gradually, frowning a little, but in thought rather than anger, he says: ]

I'm... not really sure how to answer that question. I'm not a member of the clergy, like you, and the truth is... I didn't pray much or pay attention to spiritual things, until I realized they'd chosen me to be a mage. So there's lots I don't know. I know... they've helped protect me from getting infected, when I thought there was no way I was gonna make it.

[ If Carlisle had been fishing for anything more specific than that, he is going to have to clarify. Reynir is willing to answer, but his knowledge only extends so far. ]

So do your gods share their thoughts freely? Like... do they talk to you?

Edited 2019-10-04 17:35 (UTC)

[That answer seems to appease Carlisle's curiosity for now; there's no sense in pushing further if Reynir doesn't know what they think. Gifted as he may be as a mage, he admits hasn't much of a personal connection with them, and perhaps hasn't studied what religious teachings there are in his world regarding the deities' stances on their current circumstances. Maybe their gods only care so much; maybe they only speak to a few. There could be many reasons for Reynir's ignorance completely unrelated to his own lack of experience. Gods are like that, sometimes.]

A few in every order are able to commune directly with their deity, though most of us are trained in indirect interpretation of their will. I fall into the latter category. Through devotion and prayer, I connect with my goddess, though whether or not she hears and answers me is for me to determine. She is said to reach out only on rare occasion, as the Clarity can be quite... aloof.

But - that's so cool!

[ He leans forward, fully engaged and brimming with enthusiasm and curiosity once again. ]

We don't have anything like that! We offer prayers to our gods, and sometimes they give us aid, or signs, or visions, but - but they don't talk to humans!

[ The idea that a god would do so is wild to Reynir. No matter how aloof Clarity might be, by Carlisle's standards, it's a lot more dialogue than anyone has had with Odin since... forever. ]

Was Clarity your family god or did you choose her? How does all that work?

She is the creator of our world. I had a, ah, accident of sorts when I was younger, and required a significant amount of healing. It was discovered by those healers that I had a predisposition for the art myself, and I thought it best I use it to serve the one who must have gifted me with such talent.

[Knowing said energies would later be attuned toward the necrotic, would he have made the same choice? He does not know. He's almost certain that's just an unfortunate coincidence -- or he likes to think so. He sets his mug aside (still without a sip taken) and places his fingers in the air, drawing a crude shape. While his illustrations of the plants and the runes in his journal are quite good, albeit on the technical, impersonal end, the picture he makes in the air out of glowing, suspended lines of magic is far simpler.]

[He frowns. Not his best work.]

Forgive this unflattering depiction of the Camisou -- the Clarity.

Edited 2019-10-05 21:35 (UTC)

[ Reynir listens to Carlisle's story about his calling with rapt attention. There is more there, he can tell. The hesitation around the way he mentions an accident, glossed over quickly. The lack of detail about how extensive the healing he needed was and the amount of time it took him to recover. It occurs to Reynir then that perhaps the mask is not a vestment of his order, but to cover up some scarring or disfiguration from what had happened all those years ago when he was young. But of course, he won't ask.

There is other information in the story, too. Certain individuals having predispositions to certain kinds of magic. That isn't really how things work, where Reynir is from, but he supposes it isn't any different than some people being gifted with beautiful singing voices and others being good with navigation. Talents vary. ]

I agree. I mean, with that decision. Once you know you've been chosen and given powers, you should use those powers to help people. It's not just something you can do, it's a responsibility.

[ Reynir watches, wide-eyed and silent, as Carlisle's fingers leave glowing lines in the air, gradually forming into a figure. It's not like anything Reynir has ever seen, and in a different context, with different details, he might think it was a troll. But they haven't been talking about anything related to that, so he waits patiently, and then Carlisle explains that that is the form of his deity. ]

Wow. So - there are people who have seen her? Other followers in your order, the ones that commune directly?

[ Reynir has seen illustrations of Odin but it's so not the same thing. ]

[Carlisle smiles beneath that mask of his, glad Reynir seems to understand - his decision in serving as a healer was not just the right thing to do for his bloodline, but the responsible choice. It gave him purpose -- a reason to keep moving when he felt he had so little. That, unfortunately, makes it all the more painful that things went so wrong after his death.

The lines in the air dissipate, fading away before them.]

They have not seen her in person, but in visions, dreams. The impression of her. She is far too large for one to behold with their mortal eye.

[ That earns a nod of agreement and understanding from Reynir. He has visions, has dreams, which are an integral part of his identity as a mage. It had thrown him more than he's expected, before, when Carlisle said that mages in his world didn't dream in the same way Reynir is familiar with. But some of them must - or something similar, at least, even if Carlisle is not one of those mages. That all makes much more sense. ]

That makes sense. I never really thought about it but I guess looking at a god directly would be way too much for a human to handle.

[ Reynir glances just once at that tea and back at Carlisle. It's probably getting cold. If there were any time to make the offer, it's now: ]

Do you want - would it be, um, better for you to drink that if I look away or like. Leave the room for a moment, so you can...?

[ And he mimes pulling down the mask. Reynir's face is full of earnest good-will and concern and eagerness to do whatever he has to to make his guest comfortable. ]

[He almost corrects Reynir -- it's not that directly looking at her would be too much, but that she is literally too large to behold -- but he has a far more pressing problem to deal with. He looks down at his mug, then back to his companion, connecting the dots to exactly what Reynir is suggesting.]

Oh. Oh, ah. Right, my drink. You needn't er, leave the room or anything, but it would be... polite to turn away.

[Yes, polite. That'll work. Makes it sound as though there's a cultural reason for him hiding his face rather than a cowardly one.]

Of course! I'm sorry I didn't ask any sooner...

[ And Reynir turns around in his chair, facing completely in the opposite direction to where Carlisle is seated. He even bows his head a little, looking at his hands in his lap, just so it is particularly clear he won't catch Carlisle's reflection in anything and that he isn't peeking. Not for a moment does he question that this is just the accepted way of doing things where Carlisle is from, for some reason or another. ]

What is it like - the place you come from? Iceland - that's the country I was raised in - is really cold, compared to this place. It's an island pretty far to the north, and we had to grow a lot of our food in greenhouses and buildings warmed by thermal vents... it's so easy, getting things to grow here.

[ Carlisle had made that rune for Pratt, so he must have some interest in growing things, right? That's the thought, anyway. ]

[Carlisle hadn't actually intended on removing his mask and drinking the tea, but given Reynir turns completely around -- and he can't find anywhere to discreetly dump it -- he changes his mind. He turns away as well before bringing his fingers to the top of his mask, folding it down just enough to bare his face -- or what's left of it, anyway. Without the quilted fabric blocking the way, he can pick up on the smell of the tea much better, and he takes a second to utterly revel in it. He takes a sip: what taste he detects seems so distant that it might as well be from memory alone, but at least that's something.

He tosses his head back and downs the rest so Reynir doesn't have to turn away again. Returning his mask to his face, he rearranges his veil to make sure he's fully covered before he answers.]

I lived in the mountains, in a small valley near the Cottonmouth. It was also cold there, cooler than it was further down. Some said it was because of the way the wind cut through the range, the ridges and hills so full of winding turns that the gusts were made sharp by the time they reached us. Others said it was the chill of death brought upon the very by necromancy. I like to believe the former.

[ Reynir listens to Carlisle with his back turned; he's going to stay that way as long as the other man needs, because customs are customs and he's a good host. He listens to Carlisle's words, trying to conjure up a picture of what the place must have looked like in his mind. He's always been curious about other countries, other places. It sounds like a fairly sharp and unforgiving landscape, surrounding the valley itself.

There is only one part of the description that doesn't make very much sense. Reynir wonders sometimes, how much might be lost in translation, and how much is just him being ignorant. ]

What's necromancy?

[Carlisle looks at Reynir as though he swallowed a spider, still not telling the lad he can turn around yet. If nothing else, it hides his obvious disbelief, though it bleeds right into his tone.]

Necromancy [—he hesitates for the span of a breath, almost asking if they don't have it where Reynir's from, or if he's just woefully naive—] it is a perversion of magic. It is the twisting of reparation to raise the dead, and then to control their tormented husks.

[ Reynir can hear from the hesitations in Carlisle's voice it isn't something he's eager to talk about, and the reason for that (or at least, so he thinks) becomes clear a moment later). A shiver makes its way down Reynir's spine as he imagines the kind of magic Carlisle is describing. ]

If your magic is primarily about healing, and members of your order are all trained in exorcism and helping the natural course of life and death... mages who use necromancy must be your worst enemies?

[ It is an odd thing for him, imagining magic being used for evil. He thinks immediately of the kade, what little he'd glimpsed of it in Lalli's memories. Corrupting mages, transmitting its influence through mere eye contact alone, manipulating mages into infecting their communities, their loved ones. He shudders again, crossing his arms and hugging himself. Best not to dwell on that. ]

That's- that's a really scary thought. Mages controlling the dead.

[He nods, only to realize Reynir can't see that.]

Er, you can turn around now. But yes, healers and necromancers are naturally at odds, though most magicians are at odds with necromancy. It is a vile craft practiced by only the most amoral individuals, ones with no scruples in controlling a corpse. Imagine finding your loves ones have rising from the grave, serving as slaves for a monster. Who does that willingly? Who chooses that life?

[Not him, certainly... and yet, here he is, able to control the dead at will. It's a sickening fate for a man who spent his entire life as a healer, as a servant of his goddess, as a Longinmouth -- and now he's a failure at all three through no fault of his own.]

[ Reynir turns around, and it's even more clear from his wide, frightened eyes and the alarmed expression on his face that even talking about this stuff is creeping him out in a big way. He's less naive than he had been before ending up in the Silent World, but in many ways he is still very young, and very sheltered. When Carlisle keeps talking, clearly passionate in his hatred of necromancers, Reynir eventually raises up a hand as if to halt him, saying in a voice that's getting just a bit squeaky with fear: ]

Yeah, uh, that's- I'd- rather not imagine it, actually!

[ He gets the idea, necromancy very very bad. No need to further elaborate. Reynir reaches out for his half-finished tea, but he mostly just cradles the mug in his hands, giving him something to hold onto. ]

If I ever meet a necromancer I'll know to stay very very far away.

[Reynir puts up a hand, and Carlisle stops in his musings -- he's grateful, as they were starting to turn inward, reflecting more on his own situation than necromancers in general. He adjusts his veil as he avoids Reynir's eyes, handing back the mug encouraging him to Live, Laugh and Love. He is incapable of doing one of those things, unlikely to do another, and rarely does the third these days. Thanks for reminding him of that, mug.]

A wise decision. My apologies, lad -- I know it is not an uplifting subject for most. Bear Den -- my home -- tended to be plagued by it, so it was less a taboo topic there than most. Still, it is best avoided in polite conversation.

No, don't apologize, it's... better to know and be prepared.

[ If he were a better person he would tell Carlisle he can talk about whatever he wants to, that he shouldn't feel like he has to censor himself. But all that talk about his loved ones dying and being controlled by magic was getting a little too much for Reynir's perhaps overactive imagination. One of the reasons he can be so brave, here, and not worry about living in this strange place he doesn't understand, is that he is sure everything is the same as ever back home: safe and stable and unchanged. The thought of anything malicious touching his family, coming to their safe and cozy little farm, is immediately distressing.

He wonders what his older brother Bjarni would think of Carlisle, and for a moment, misses him intensely. If only he could write letters home, send word that he is doing okay...

But he can't and so he says: ]

Then they must have been glad when it turned out you had a talent for healing and a calling to the clergy, to help keep them safe from- from such horrible things.

[ A new mage being discovered in a community is a blessing; Reynir was always taught to believe that and he is sure that's doubly true in a place where evil comes not just from the hardships of the world or from trolls and beasts, but from evil mages as well. ]

Do you miss your home?

september 2019. welcome to the void.

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