Phoenixsong
beep beep coming through
- Pronoun
- she/they/any
((Hey look, it's a handy-dandy link to the rules/information post in the sign-up thread for reference! Hooray!
And a note: All names here, are, of course, the names of players, not roles. The bold body count at the end has any names listed as [PlayerName](p) just to be sure there's no confusion. Any roles with these names may or may not still be out there!))
I do not know exactly how long the group has been here, to be honest, any more than I can say how long I myself have been here aside from the fact that I arrived well before they did. Or was it only moments before? It is so difficult to know the time, or even know if time means anything in this forsaken place, and I have given up all hope of determining what has transpired in the lands of light and logic beyond this plane. Attempting to wrap my mind around such things is an exercise in futility and headaches, and one I have long since abandoned for the sake of my own sanity. There is precious little left of that as it is.
(It is not as distressing as one might imagine, the loss of time. When there is no one waiting for you on the other side, and when there is no one to whom you wish to return, what is the need for counting the minutes as they may or may not tick by?
I have more important things to think about than what they are doing with themselves now, at any rate.)
At the very least I do know the landscape—this small part of it, anyway, most of the time when it isn't in one of its fickle moods and contemplating rearranging itself—better than that gaggle of dazed and forlorn wanderers, and as such I find the bodies long before they do. Bodies are something I have been finding rather a lot of ever since their sudden appearance. People have been drawn into this place before and after my arrival, of course, and they all have a tendency to turn up dead; sometimes it sees to that itself. All things considered, I must color myself amazed that I have not yet met a similar fate. Most of the Lost have done less to perturb it than I.
But I have not seen it around of late—one can only wonder where it has gone off to, or whether it has gone anywhere at all—and this level of destruction would ordinarily be difficult to achieve without its assistance. It has even escalated above and beyond the carnage I had seen those three leave behind before, which until now had been single victims, lured away from the group and off to some lonely area to meet a grisly end. But to find three at once...
The rest of the group does come along at length, after a tiring search through stands of plants and around waving waterfalls in the vain hope that they might discover their missing compatriots still alive. Instead I watch them from a distance as they stumble across the remains, all three strewn across the same large floating island. The first has been impaled by a thick stem snapped from one of the plants, pinned to the crumbling earth in a pool of his own blood; the second is horribly broken, her neck and chest twisted and squeezed as though some great coils or monstrous hands had wrung her poor body out like laundry.
And the murderers, already having edged their way back into the fold and masked their madness so well, gasp and weep and stare along with the rest, their fellow wanderers none the wiser. One of them even manages a convincing ragged cheer and spits on the third corpse, the fangmarks marring the deceased's body not enough to hide the wide, staring eyes and warped grin that mark one distorted by the darkness. The murderer pauses just long enough to steal a longing glance at that same darkness, still swirling and pulsing around them without form or meaning. The others do not notice, too busy grieving or celebrating or trying to make sense of their senseless situation to pay that fleeting look any mind.
I wonder how long they will be able to keep up that facade before the strain of the darkness truly cracks them. Surely they will lose what composure they have left, if the darkness has had this powerful an effect on them already. It is not a matter of if, only when, for some value of "when" that carries some sort of meaning in a world outside of time.
If nothing else, it will be much sooner than the other lost ones would like.
Superbird(p) is dead. He was not mafia.
Skylark(p) is dead. He was mafia.
HighMoon(p) is dead. She was mafia.
You have 48 hours for discussion and voting.
And a note: All names here, are, of course, the names of players, not roles. The bold body count at the end has any names listed as [PlayerName](p) just to be sure there's no confusion. Any roles with these names may or may not still be out there!))
I do not know exactly how long the group has been here, to be honest, any more than I can say how long I myself have been here aside from the fact that I arrived well before they did. Or was it only moments before? It is so difficult to know the time, or even know if time means anything in this forsaken place, and I have given up all hope of determining what has transpired in the lands of light and logic beyond this plane. Attempting to wrap my mind around such things is an exercise in futility and headaches, and one I have long since abandoned for the sake of my own sanity. There is precious little left of that as it is.
(It is not as distressing as one might imagine, the loss of time. When there is no one waiting for you on the other side, and when there is no one to whom you wish to return, what is the need for counting the minutes as they may or may not tick by?
I have more important things to think about than what they are doing with themselves now, at any rate.)
At the very least I do know the landscape—this small part of it, anyway, most of the time when it isn't in one of its fickle moods and contemplating rearranging itself—better than that gaggle of dazed and forlorn wanderers, and as such I find the bodies long before they do. Bodies are something I have been finding rather a lot of ever since their sudden appearance. People have been drawn into this place before and after my arrival, of course, and they all have a tendency to turn up dead; sometimes it sees to that itself. All things considered, I must color myself amazed that I have not yet met a similar fate. Most of the Lost have done less to perturb it than I.
But I have not seen it around of late—one can only wonder where it has gone off to, or whether it has gone anywhere at all—and this level of destruction would ordinarily be difficult to achieve without its assistance. It has even escalated above and beyond the carnage I had seen those three leave behind before, which until now had been single victims, lured away from the group and off to some lonely area to meet a grisly end. But to find three at once...
The rest of the group does come along at length, after a tiring search through stands of plants and around waving waterfalls in the vain hope that they might discover their missing compatriots still alive. Instead I watch them from a distance as they stumble across the remains, all three strewn across the same large floating island. The first has been impaled by a thick stem snapped from one of the plants, pinned to the crumbling earth in a pool of his own blood; the second is horribly broken, her neck and chest twisted and squeezed as though some great coils or monstrous hands had wrung her poor body out like laundry.
And the murderers, already having edged their way back into the fold and masked their madness so well, gasp and weep and stare along with the rest, their fellow wanderers none the wiser. One of them even manages a convincing ragged cheer and spits on the third corpse, the fangmarks marring the deceased's body not enough to hide the wide, staring eyes and warped grin that mark one distorted by the darkness. The murderer pauses just long enough to steal a longing glance at that same darkness, still swirling and pulsing around them without form or meaning. The others do not notice, too busy grieving or celebrating or trying to make sense of their senseless situation to pay that fleeting look any mind.
I wonder how long they will be able to keep up that facade before the strain of the darkness truly cracks them. Surely they will lose what composure they have left, if the darkness has had this powerful an effect on them already. It is not a matter of if, only when, for some value of "when" that carries some sort of meaning in a world outside of time.
If nothing else, it will be much sooner than the other lost ones would like.
Superbird(p) is dead. He was not mafia.
Skylark(p) is dead. He was mafia.
HighMoon(p) is dead. She was mafia.
You have 48 hours for discussion and voting.
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