CALCUTTA • JULY 2025 EVENT

[uruz]

EVENT: CALCUTTA

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I am caught, tangled in

( content warnings: body horror, surreal horror, post-apocalyptic themes )

You wake with soil under your nails, something sharp in your mouth, and the scent of damp rust in the back of your throat. The sky is not night, but it is no longer day. Around you, a city's skeleton lies tangled in ruin and overgrowth in the crisp, tail end nips of autumn— skyscrapers strangled by vine and mycelium tower around you, streets are cracked open like wounds. No sound of civilization. Only wind, soft and low like breath.

You are not where you should be, and you are not entirely who you were. Do you remember the dream you had? Perhaps barely, perhaps almost too vividly. You will likely find a mask nearby— one you find familiar. While you may not have the same urgency to wear it as you did within the dreamscape, you at the very least feel the need to carry it with you now.

Some wake in subway tunnels pulsing with bioluminescence, others in penthouse ruins swallowed by moss and red ivy. Rooftop gardens filled with brittle blossoms. Empty galleries hung with paintings that seem to shift when you’re not looking. Vessels are absolutely scattered. You can wake up anywhere that's possible within the bones of this city. Life endures here, but it is changed. In the streets, rats with slick, glowing underskin scurry between collapsed signs. Pigeons wheel overhead, blind-eyed and silent. Dogs and cats roam in feral bands, some marked by fungal growths, others with bodies too long, too many limbs, or split maws bursting with tendrils. Deer can also be found roaming the enclosure of what used to be Central Park, and will open their strange mouths when they seem to stare at you. Seem, because they no longer have eyes to do that with. From deeper shadows and thicker canopies come the zoo escapees: a moose that climb walls and have a petrifying gaze, herds of zebra stand frozen like littered statues until they hear noises, to which they will scatter like roaches. Sewer grates rattle beneath your feet, and something wet and ancient stirs in the depths— Hippos that release toxic gases when threatened lay in the waters and gnaw on anything they could get their teeth on. The most gentle of them all are the giraffes; they still attempt to nibble on the falling sunset leaves where still gathered, and will even come up to humans who offer anything green for them to eat. There's so much more left unsaid, if you're unlucky enough to come across them.

The flora is no safer. Familiar trees such as maple, ginkgo and oak still grow in parks and fracture ciment with their powerful roots. Plenty of the bark is etched with a strange set of sigils that hum when approached. Ivy pulses with low light and throbs when touched. Entire buildings are choked with fungus: spires of mushroom growths that sway despite the absence of wind, spores spilling like ash when disturbed. Moss spreads across broken windows in fractal shapes, responding to movement, to emotion with colors beyond what you could imagine. Wildflowers bloom in moonlight— roses with petal-thorns and daffodils exhale perfume that clouds your thoughts.

And still, the city seems to watch you soundlessly. Beneath your feet, the soil responds. Something old sleeps in the brickwork, the concrete, the iron bones of this place— and your presence has stirred it.

You'd better get moving. Survive.

NOTES:

• You must find shelter, water, and food. Anything that can be found in city stores is plausible, but much of the food will be expired or ransacked by the lives before yours, or animals. The Host-fauna are edible if you can stomach it, and some may talk in tongues before they die. The flora is a mixed bag, from harmless to not.
• The environment is reactive: Touch a wall and it pulses. Step into an abandoned deli and the shelves might whisper for a second.

OPTIONAL TOKEN EFFECTS

• Tokens will feel a strange resonance when near remnants of human structure, especially things tied to strong emotion (graffiti, photos, childhood toys, street art, music).
• Tokens will feel warm when close to sites where others have suffered or are remembered deeply. These sensations are disorienting but emotionally vivid, almost like deja vu.
• Tokens could experience nosebleeds or migraines near intense emotional hotspots. This is their magic wanting an outlet, but too newly formed to pour itself out.

OPTIONAL OFFERING EFFECTS

• Offerings will feel the thrum of the Murmur, like a second heartbeat in the earth, when near fungal flora or decayed nature.
• Offerings will feel oddly familiar with the world around them, as if it recognizes them and vice verse. Scents linger longer and skin responds to temperature or emotion in exaggerated ways.
• The act of hunting and consuming host fauna is euphoric, but only for a moment— followed by a haunting awareness of their own anatomy shifting from the inside in ways they should fear.

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And I wake, say your name

( content warnings: sensory distortion )

One night— it doesn't matter which, time has loosened— your mask beckons. Something is encouraging you to put it on. It sears cold when you do. A pressure behind your eyes grows sharp, then splits. Suddenly, the silence inside your skull isn't yours anymore.

The Murmur is stirring.

A psychic thread pulls taut through your mind like a bow ready to shoot. Language might fail. Images are the easiest to come first— flickers of hands, blood, feathers, fire. Then voices, soft and reverent, speaking your name in words you don't know but understand. Some speak back. Some yell. Some sing. You sense others, Tokens humming with potential, Offerings heavy with heat and pain.

You are not alone. You never were.



NOTES:

• Your gamewide "network" is live! Try to reach someone through the Murmur. Perhaps a thought, a memory, or just a name. Players are welcomed to create prompts within this log or post to the network community proper.
• Communication may come in fragments. Images repeat, words loop, emotion surges without cause or by accident. One name in particular echoes:

Espera.
You may try to reach for her, even if your chances are slim. You might end up contacting someone or something else entirely.

OPTIONAL TOKEN EFFECTS:

• Tokens may begin having their first access to inner magic. Not enough to use consciously, but enough to glitch with use, accidental or not. A friendly reminder that characters should not be able to use their magic with ease, yet. Keep in mind they should all have a realistic adjustment period.
• Tokens may have sensory overlaps: seeing sounds, hearing memories, tasting colors.
• Tokens may be energy sensitive. Areas with high ambient emotion (graveyards, burnt apartments, memorable objects) seem to strengthen their clarity but exaggerate their magic in startling bursts.

OPTIONAL OFFERING EFFECTS:

• Offerings may have their transformation accelerate when using the Murmur's network, albeit in a way that glitches in and out. A friendly reminder that characters should not be able to use their transformations with ease, yet. Keep in mind they should all have a realistic adjustment period.
• Offerings may hear less words, more songs, breathing, scent— nonverbal communication that may be overwhelming.
• Offerings may experience intense somatic reactions while using the network: twitching limbs, sudden pain, the sense of being stroked or watched.

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Wrapped and quartered

( content warnings: body horror )

As the days bleed together, the city begins to still. Where once the overgrowth pulsed with strange life, now it withers back into itself. The streets grow colder. The air bites. The mutated fauna, once noisy, prowling, goes silent. Ivy wilts, retreating from the moonlight. The mushroom towers collapse in on themselves with wet sighs. Even the buildings seem to hold their breath. Your own exhales frost in the air, hanging like ghosts. Above, the sky splits at the seams— crimson bleeding in from the edges, as if the moon itself were being peeled open at the arrival of winter.

And then: the masks begin to thrum.

It is subtle at first, a hum at the base of the spine. A low vibration felt rather than heard. But it grows, constant, inescapable— as if something is ticking down inside you. The masks react even when untouched, glowing faintly, twitching. You feel it in your chest. A second heartbeat. You're urged to put it on.

A voice, familiar and female, threads through the Murmur like static on a broken radio. Espera says:

"If you have not Tethered . . . do so. Before she bleeds in full."

Your body responds before your mind does. Magic stirs in your bloodstream— volatile and half-born. For some, flame dances along their fingertips, mirrors twitch in response to their gaze, or their pulse sings in electric rhythm. For others, bones shift beneath skin, teeth ache with growth, limbs feel wrong. Something is changing about you. Slowly. Irreversibly.

NOTES:

• Animal hosts may react reverently to tethered pairs. Lone vessels are ignored, followed, or violently met.
• Winter is here in full, but it doesn't seem natural— it is a forced shift. The city feels colder, quieter, and more hostile. Even the corrupted ecosystem seems to brace for something larger.
• Magic is awakening further. All vessels, Token and Offering alike, begin to experience supernatural phenomena more intensely. These changes are often involuntary, especially under emotional or physical duress. Powers may flicker, trigger, or distort, reflecting the vessel's inner state. They should not have control of it yet.
• The call to Tether is no longer subtle— it is urgent. Even characters who resist connection may optionally feel the biological/spiritual pressure to Tether. Those who remain untethered may begin to feel destabilized, sensitive to The Murmur, and/or experience the subtle beginnings of Succumbence.

OPTIONAL TOKEN EFFECTS

• Tokens may have unintentional magic surges in times of distress OR the awakening of "comfort zones". Small, warped spaces where reality thins into dreamscape, resembling meaningful memories (a childhood room, a stage, a battlefield). These zones offer eerie familiarity, but not safety from the weather.
• They may feel watched by something divine, but dispassionate— like being studied under a microscope.
• They may feel a need for proximity so great that the body physically aches. In worst case scenarios, you may even fall ill the longer you ignore your body's cry to dissipate your building magic. Tethering will immediately resolve this.

OPTIONAL OFFERING EFFECTS:

• An Offering's new instincts and transformations may begin to surface. Fear of fire. Yearning for music. It will all depend on what you're becoming. One thing that may be shared is a fierce protectiveness toward nearby Tokens.
• They may sense that something is weighing their souls against an invisible scale— not to punish you, but to categorize you. You have the inexplicable feeling that it is also the same thing that is shaping you.
• They may feel compelled to nest or anchor themselves near a Token's comfort zone or with a Token— circling the space like a sentinel or beast returning home. Tethering will make you whole, calm and seen.

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Missing pieces find me

( content warnings: uncanny doppelgängers, possible visions of murder, violence, self harm. )

Winter has settled into everything with soft snowfall. Into your joints. Into the breath you share with others in the dark, or by an impromptu fire with scraps. Into the way your name sounds now when someone says it soft like a secret, or a warning. You've learned to ration warmth like a dwindling supply.

You've grown used to the rhythm of this place: the creak of half-dead buildings, the hollow crunch beneath your feet, the subtle hum that coils through the threads between you and the ones you've chosen to keep close throughout the month. The ones who understand that survival isn't just about staying alive.

But lately, something else has begun to settle in. It's not loud, and certainly not obvious. A shift, like a door left open too long. And that, Dear Vessels, starts in your reflections.

You see it in the fractured edge of glass, or in water that should have frozen weeks ago. In any surface slick enough to cast back your image, you may look, and it looks back. You move, and sometimes it moves too— but not quite right. A second too late. A second too early. Sometimes not at all.

And then it smiles, or frowns, or spits.

It is just enough to be wrong. Unnerving. Just enough to slip under your skin like splinters. You tilt your head— your reflection doesn't. You blink— it watches. And then you turn away. You tell yourself it's the frost. The tension. The light. But when you glance back, it’s still watching you.

Other vessels are seeing it, too, even if they don't say it out loud. They pause at windows. They look into still water a beat too long. They touch their own faces like they're checking for something missing. Or added. Something extra.

At least your reflection isn’t hurting you. Well. Not yet.

NOTES:

• A shimmering surface of any kind could reflect two vessels at once but their reflections are fighting. There's blood between them . . .
• At night, the moon above is bright, ice blue and full, with its edges tainted by a splowly spreading crimson. Characters may notice that in reflections, it is completely red and the tendrils from within spew out. A double take will have this reflection of the moon disappearing.
• Characters (especially those who may not be able to see the reflections) may notice and hear their comrade's reflections laughing or speaking to them— they may even respond and try to carry conversation. Note that it's the reflection that's doing this sporadically, and not the real person.

OPTIONAL TOKEN EFFECTS:

• Tokens may notice their hands glowing in thier reflection, but not outside it. After a few moments, the same magic curls up their arms. Their mirrorselves are trying to access their magic for them, so best redirect anything if you want to avoid possible friendly fire.
• They may realize their reflection is always watching their Tether, even as they sleep. It tilts its head, comes crawling with a knife raised, drives it down— then it's gone.
• They may see their mirrorselves practicing violence on nearby objects, anything they could get their hands on.

OPTIONAL OFFERING EFFECTS

• Offerings may wake to burning, superficial claw marks on their sides. Their reflections will be found licking their fingers.
• They may notice their reflection becoming violent with their nearby Tethers; pulling them by the hair, biting into them, prying at their eyes, etc.
• They may see their reflections pushing into existing wounds and feeding, wherever they are.

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ranni the witch | elden ring

[deathstealer]

✘ ⸻ i am caught

[ After the bleeding moon, after the orchard and the strange people and the endless fields-- Ranni wakes in a library.

It is subtly different than the kind of library that she knows. No glintstone crystals, no heavy drippings of wax from candles; it is sparse, the books small and narrow, no scrolls to be seen anywhere. Still, the familiarity is a comfort. It is only once she steps outside that Ranni begins to understand just how different this new landscape is.

This is no dream; that much she can feel. Her doll body is stiff and unresponsive, its magic gone. She stands at the doorway of the vast crumbling library and gazes upward at rectangular towers, smooth roads, and scenery that is wholly unfamiliar to her. She sticks out like a sore thumb, her witch's hat incongruous against the rotting modernity, her spectral face calm against her unmoving porcelain face. And yet, she feels connected to this place in a way she never even felt connected to her own Lands, like she can hear the very heartbeat of it, like the road itself shifts and hums under her feet. The animals feel beloved. The very sky feels like an old friend.

Others pass by her on their way to search for supplies, but Ranni has no need of food or water or warmth. She sits on a bench outside, unmoving hands folded in her lap, and to the next person that passes by, she offers: ]

Seekest thou shelter and sustenance?
I caution thee against hunting;
therein lays the risk of a rot even I know not how to soothe.

[ She holds up one hand of four, and a tiny finch alights on it, one of the few friendly animals around. ]

The large spotted beasts with long necks seem gentle and uncorrupted;
have thee a bow, or a sword, and the hunter's wits to match?

✘ ⸻ wrapped and quartered

[ Ranni settles in more easily than most. She is the spirit of a god inhabiting the body of a life-sized porcelain and metal doll; she needs very little. No sustenance, no sleep, no warmth. Thus, she can stay awake all day and night, ensconced in the library, appearing outside only very rarely.

There, she... struggles.

The black lace veil that she woke up with in the dream seems to call to her, and there are whispers in her ears that scarcely leave her alone. The sky, what she can see of it through the cracked windows, is bleeding red. But the worst of all is within her: there is a yearning there, as sharp as a blade. It is no different than what she has suffered before, but it has taken on new angles, new dimensions, new urgency. Before, she could tamper down her wish for connection, strangle it under the weight of her destiny and the path she needed to walk. Now, she catches herself drifting off halfway through a page in a book, staring at a wall, ears perked and hopeful for the sound of anybody nearby. As she has isolated herself, there is nobody, and that fact becomes harder and harder to bear.

Something is telling her to connect. To join with another. Ranni resists the compulsion only as long as she can before she inevitably finds herself outside once more, the chill night wrapped around her. She stands as a beacon under the starlight, her great furred cloak wrapped with gentle light, the halo behind her head the dark blue-grey of a dark moon.

She finds her way to another's encampment. Somehow, she seems to just appear, standing at a distance. Ranni betrays nothing of her wants, or her struggle, her face calm and impassive. Internally, the metal that makes up her back feels like it's writhing, and great shadows flicker behind her. ]

Peace, gentle traveler.
I come to thine side not as an intrusion,
but as an offer of aid.
Warmth I cannot give, nor water or victuals,
it is knowledge I wish to compare.

✘ ⸻ missing pieces find me

[ The snow is a joy to Ranni. A familiar comfort in a strange world, even if she cannot harness her own magic to shape it and encourage it. She has made herself useful where she can -- she has found blankets and pillows in a nearby building that she has distributed, candles in another. The books, she guards, allowing others to read but not take. Such information is too valuable to allow it to wander.

One morning, she catches sight of her reflection. A tall, redheaded woman stares back at her, and Ranni is so taken aback that she gazes into the reflection of the library window for some time. Her old face smiles in a way she never did, licks blood off her fingers with the appetite of a beast driven mad.

When she ventures out, her reflection knows its place. It stays behind her. Thus, Ranni is able to see the reflections of others, unhindered.

She finds someone staring into a long, shallow puddle. Their reflection is there; Ranni watches it in curiosity, a scholar studying a new phenomenon, for all that it doesn't show on her face. Their reflection is speaking, and Ranni can hear it in the way one might hear a conversation from another room; not wholly, only a few words here and there. For the briefest moment, she catches the true reflection of the moon itself; that bleeding beast is back once more, its tendrils grasping outward, its fetid face an insult to Ranni. ]

Close thine eyes,
and come away from the water.

[ Ranni's voice is cultured, accented. Polite, but sharp. Pointed. ]

Thy inner beast can only lie,
and drawest thou into turmoil black as night.
Come away.

[ Whether or not they listen to her, that's another story. ]

✘ ⸻ wildcard

[ ooc: if your character is more the type to wander into a library, feel free to approach Ranni first! She can found in the library at all hours, usually sitting on a pile of books (it makes her feel taller). Specifically, she has made The Morgan Library and Museum her new home, purely for the vibes. ]

wrapped and quartered.

[hongtian]

[ Unlike Ranni, Ruhong has settled in poorly. Cities have never been her favored terrain, for all the time she has lived in them in recent years, and even those cities didn't quite match up to this one. Elthriel and Kalaman were made of stone and wood, their walls rising only a fraction of what surrounds Ruhong now. Even in those places she felt closed in, trapped by tight quarters and narrow streets; in this city, her qi in flux and her golden core of power all but inaccessible, she feels she may claw her way out of her own skin.

Ruhong has clung to the park as much as she can, desperate for green earth and open spaces despite the strange fungus and rot that grows on everything. Worse still is the crimson sky that taunts her, she is the crimson sky, and the horrible pull, the tug in her mind that begs to link with someone else and hold.

It is in this state, hungry and angry and alone, that Ranni finds Ruhong, the small campfire throwing flickering relief upon her face. Ruhong jerks up at the movement and reaches for a broken piece of metal pipe—a makeshift sword—that she has scavenged from the streets until Ranni's voice loosens her grip. Ruhong stares at her, no longer eager to strike but not quite relaxed, either. ]

I've little of it to offer, I believe. [ Her voice is dry. ] But if you wish, I'll compare it nonetheless.

[ She gestures for Ranni to join her around the fire and watches her closely, her red eyes unblinking. ]

If you are looking for knowledge, then you are as lost here as I. [ Half a statement, half a question. ]

[deathstealer]

Some knowledge I have already found;
but a scholar always hungers for more.

[ Ranni barely blinked at Ruhong's motion to grab the pipe, too fixated on gazing at her. There is-- something about her. An energy that Ranni wants to bury herself in. An internal light that she wants to sink her teeth into. She does not yet know the words Token and Offering, she does not yet know the connection between them, but she knows magic, and she knows the variations thereof. And something Ruhong's magic is calling to her.

She cannot take a deep breath to fortify herself, as she has no lungs. She makes the motions nonetheless, the rise of her chest only barely visible, before she sits next to Ruhong at the fire. Its warmth is pleasing, but unecessary for her. ]

By the last reckoning of this world,
its' final recorded date was the year two thousand twenty three.
New York, this city called itself,
upon an island named Manhatten.

[ She folds both pairs of hands in her lap, disguising how stiff and unusable they are. ]

No monsters save for humans dwelt in these lands;
the beasts here are new, and the connection is clear.

[hongtian]

Ah. A scholar.

[ She says it aloud, relaxing her grip on the pipe as she does so, but the words hardly register even on her own tongue. Ruhong stares at Ranni, unable to do otherwise as she approaches, unable even to remember to breathe at the vibration in her chest that suddenly hisses and pops in tandem with the small campfire in front of her. The emptiness in her stomach—the dull, gnawing omnipresent hunger, the one that has only grown stronger each day in this cursed city—grows again.

Ruhong wants something from this stranger. She just has yet to find out what. ]

I beg you to enlighten me on any connections you've made.

[ She shifts, angling just enough to look sideways at Ranni in the firelight. Something isn't quite... normal, exactly, about the way the newcomer moves, but in the dim flickering light Ruhong has yet to notice it. She curls her hands into the fabric of the cloth at her knees and resist the urge to reach out to touch—what is wrong with her? ]

All this time I've been under the impression this has something to do with sleep—or dreaming. And I confess little knowledge of the latter, nor what monsters could have to do with the former.

[deathstealer]

[ A scholar, yes. A witch. Just a normal, harmless person; that's how Ranni is presenting herself. Oh, she knows nobody is buying the normal part, but it's to her advantage here to not be seen as a god. She does not know how the people here would react, but more importantly, she does not know how their mysterious dream-weaver would act. ]

The orchard and fields thy found thyself in was a dream, indeed,
but these lands feel real to mine senses, and raw besides.

[ There is a certain sense to a dream. One can be convinced in a dream that it is real, that everything one touches and sees is real, but after the dream is over, it becomes obvious that it was not real. So, Ranni cannot actually confidently say that this place is real, other than an educated guess.

She has been to the top of one of these tall buildings, though, and she has seen lands between. Far greater and wider geography than the dream had. ]

But what caused the downfall of this city?
For that, I cannot say.
In its' time it was beautiful and shining;
now reduced to a dank, growing thing.

[hongtian]

Not such an unusual story, as far as cities go.

[ Ruhong thinks of Elthriel, once known as the City of Light, now full of darkness and crime and but a few short miles from the Desolate Scar, a reminder of the battle waged there between the demon lords and their armies. Of the Hellish incursion it had faced not just once but twice. She thinks of Nightlund, now forever dark and swarming with armies of the undead.

Perhaps, she thinks, cities have no other fate but eventually to fall. Ruhong waves a dismissive hand. ]

As to your other observation, this feels about as real to my senses as the orchard did. Is that usual for a dream? Can you taste fruit as well as you feel pain in them? Revisit them, perhaps, to find someone and root them out?

[ She reaches for the fire, ignoring the flames that lick her skin and leave her unburned, for the thing that might have once been a pigeon that roasts in there now. ]

You've more knowledge than I, it seems, so perhaps food in exchange instead.

[deathstealer]

A generous offering indeed--

[ For the one who has little but offers it to a stranger nonetheless is worlds more generous than the one with plenty who offers much. ]

--but 'tis lost on one such as mineself.

[ Ranni taps a fingertip against her scarred cheek, where porcelain rings against porcelain, showing that her jaw and mouth cannot move. Even if they could, she has no organs with which to digest the roast bird. Ah, but sometimes she does miss food and wine. If only the sweet dream of the orchard had allowed her to partake.

The deliberate showing of her non-organic state is the most she has thus revealed to anybody in this strange world. Ruhong's generosity begets generosity, perhaps. ]

Dreams can be many things, and many more besides,
as vast and as complex as the stars above.
Some are fleeting and quickly forgotten,
and some seemeth as real as you and I.
The key, I find, is in the broader scopes;
the detail, and the weave and weft of its shape.
A simple orchard or run-down field is easily dreamed--
an entire city, not so.

i. i am caught

[pointedlook]

[ Despite the architectural decay, the looping crawl of flora, and accumulation of debris, he'd recognized his surroundings upon waking immediately–the Guggenheim Museum, with its curved floors, the open and airy center. He'd spent some time wandering around it, feeling a strange sense of both nostalgia and loss. Just two years ago, before his life went to hell in a handbasket, he'd taken a weekend vacation to the city, putting in thousands of steps while meandering through Museum Mile and Central Park.

The once-bustling museum had been silent. As had the outside, with the taxis and cars all stopped in the regular array of chaotic New York traffic patterns. Discomfited by the uncharacteristic quiet of a place he'd known to be one of the loudest cities on earth, he'd begun walking south, towards Midtown, following the signs for the 456 line.

It takes him by his count, about an hour and a half to make it all the way down the east side of Central Park and past the crumbling Grand Central Station. On the way, he'd been forced to detour for a few blocks to avoid the looming moose clustered by the broken shell of the Fifth Ave Apple store. Safely having avoided the rest of the wildlife, he finally slows as he comes up towards the front entrance of the Morgan Library–there might be no internet to speak of, but he's still a point man. Research is the name of the game. This isn't exactly where he intended to end up, as he had been trying to get a better lay of the land in general.

But, it's hardly a terrible place to stop.

Well, maybe. Someone else has found their way here, and she hails him with an archaic way of speaking, almost as if she's perpetually reciting poetry. He's not going to argue with it, not when she has four arms to his two. ]

The giraffes? [ Unless there's some other long-necked spotted beast out there. ] I've a pistol, but, I doubt that'll make a dent in the moose.

[ Though, to her first query: ] Wasn't looking for food or a place to hole up just yet. Figured I'd see if I could do a bit of research, see if anyone recorded what happened here.

[deathstealer]

[ Ranni knows not what a pistol is, but she will take his word that it will not be enough to slay the gentle beasts. Such magnificent creatures could provide meat for many mouths, but Ranni is not concerning herself with such trivial matters. Let others caretake; she will focus on the bigger picture. ]

Ah, 'tis knowledge you seek?
This door thee have stopped outside is met by fate, then.
Much history resides inside, and daily news besides.

[ The news parchments have actually been one of the more useful things to read. Some of them are too brittle or damp, but most are in fine condition. They've even provided her an exact date that this world seems to have ended.

Ranni stands, and inclines her head to the man in front of her. He is an odd looking man; unusually healthy looking, but no armor to speak of. Is he not wary of attack? ]

Come, stranger.
Thine eyes will do well as an extra gaze,
as it will take many hands to discover these mysteries.

[ She pushes open the door, and leads the way into the library. ]

[pointedlook]

It's Arthur.

[ He introduces himself, as he follows the strange girl in, the scuff of their steps echoing oddly in the entryway. Normally, those sounds would be drowned out by the visitors or the ambient traffic noise. Now, it's just stillness, dust, and their mismatched gait. ]

Unless they completely reorganized from the last time I was here, it shouldn't be a huge problem finding things. [ Then again: ] How bad is the water damage and mold?

[ Y'know, since she's been here. Presumably for long enough to start reading articles and books. He figures he'll get a more personal experience here soon enough, because cataloguing is a thing he enjoys doing. Eames would tell him he's sick in the head and probably wants to make out with Excel.

Which, no. He just likes organization.

They pass by the front of the museum's gift shop and he takes a few steps in, riffling through a stack of dire looking moleskines. Soon enough, he's triumphant in prying up a set of three pocket-sized ones, still in their plastic, and only the bottom edge warped with a water stain. Swiping this and a small array of pens from the clear containers near the checkout counter, he jogs to catch back up with the witch hat girl. ]

Is this where you arrived, after...? [ The garden, he thinks, but maybe there were other entrances. ]

[deathstealer]

Then you may know me as Ranni,
a witch of origins less scientifically advanced than these.

[ She's being humble, in a way.

Ranni opens the inner door that leads into the library proper, holding it open for Arthur to pass through. The space inside is relatively free from mould and plant growth, only a few vines curling in through holes in the corners or cracked windows. The books themselves, lining the expansive walls, have been kept safe by the glass and crosshatched metal doors covering the shelves, dry and out of the sun. On one wall, a low fire is banked in the fireplace. Ranni had had to figure out matches; an ingenious invention, but one not as easy as plain fire magic.

She sits at a desk in the middle of the room, piled high with books, and a scattering of newspapers. Her voluminous hat peeks over top of the stacks. ]

Indeed, 'twas here that I awoke;
a fortuitous chance.
The books inside deal largely with history.
'tis the papers of news I have found most useful.
This world had many strange wonders and advancements,
and many more mysteries besides.

[ For instance, what is this 'taco truck' that one of the front page articles speaks of? Ranni cannot begin to fathom. ]

[pointedlook]

[ She takes up her perch at the desk in the middle of the room and Arthur nearly loses sight of her behind the towering piles of books and periodicals. The crooked tip of her hat is just barely visible at this angle, something that strikes him as privately amusing.

Instead of going to the desk, he chooses to do a loop around the room instead, craning his neck to peer up at the higher shelves. With most things behind glass or encased in grated metal, the books don't have the same wear or mold as the ones in the gift shop. A relief, he thinks, and some tension he didn't know he was holding onto dissipates. ]

Yeah, this place doubled as a museum. [ He trails his fingers over one of the embellished mesh enclosures and giving the door to it a small tug. It doesn't budge, probably needing some sort of key.

Well, there's enough material sitting in piles near Ranni, so he leaves the locked case alone for now and goes to take a half-seat on a clear sliver of the desk's surface. Pulling the nearest newspaper off a stack—The New York Times—he takes note of the date and unfolds it, setting his newly acquired notebooks and pens next to his thigh. ]

I'm from here, sorta, if you've got questions. Least, I'm from this world. Haven't lived in this city for at least 6 years.

[deathstealer]

[ Though Ranni's porcelain face does not move, its spectral mirror eye narrows slightly, interest keen in the ghostly gaze.

What a boon, to have a fellow dreamer to be from this very world! Here, Ranni had thought of herself as an archeologist, a historian fumbling through the records of a long-dead world in attempt to comprehend it. But she has come across a native member of this long-dead civilization, a living being which she can question and examine! How fortuitous!

Piecing through this information has been difficult with the lack of movement in her hands, magic-less porcelain reduced to stiff mannequin hands. But she manages to hand Arthur a newspaper nonetheless; the latest one she could find, dated May 19th, 2023. ]

Here is the last of these papers,
though its news seemeth most normal.
Didst thou experience the calamity that led to the fall of this land?
Or were thee taken from a time before?

[ 'At least six years', unfortunately, means little to her as she has no idea what time he is from. He looks like the people in the pictures in the newspapers, though, with their strange clothing and styling. ]

wrapped and quartered (& kind of a wildcard, cw: ptsd)

[hexrot]

[ jayce hates winter. he hates it. he hates it a tremendous amount. it could be worse, he could be without the bulk of his battle jacket, he could be outside in the snow, he could be without a fire to warm him in a deli with shattered windows. pieces of cardboard form a barrier between himself and the freezing tile floor under him, but it's hardly enough to quell the biting cold at his fingertips, nose, ears, toes and ribs. he was hardly planning on sleeping much, but now he just felt like it'd be a danger to slip into slumber that could easily freeze him in his sleep. there's enough space for the smoke to escape. he should at least not need to worry about waking up as an ice cube, so long as the oak from a chair's legs keeps burning.

tether before the blood moon, espera warned. he has an innate feeling of what that is based on what she'd provided as context, but that still leaves jayce with fuming, flared nostrils as he tended to the fire's lifeline and eventually whacked a mug off the counter.

he still cannot find viktor. he still feels like he's being put on a scale and weighed for his meat. it makes his eyelids twitch, just as much as the unraveling burn in his chest fuels an embittered indignation that his partner truly thought he should be alone right now. if only jayce could sympathize, but he fucking can't. he thinks it's stupidly inept for a mind so brilliant, and the feeling that he needs to be at his side but can't only deepens the glare he gives the fire dancing in his face. jayce curls up on himself, knees to his chest and arms wrapped tightly around them to ward off the plumetting temperatures, but eventually stretching his braced leg when keeping it compact hurts. he wants to unbuckle and relieve the limb from the chafing sores digging into his flesh, but his anxiety and acute senses to anything plausibly dangerous doesn't allow him to rest. he might need to get up and book it. he might need to fight. he can't stand properly without it, much less move.

he ends up scratching at his scarred wrist until its an angry rubor and a mirror of his building grievances. the rest of his skin crawls, itches in patches beneath his clothes. taking a look only after he's realized he's been scratching different spots raw only reveals reddened flesh dotted with petechias and a strange . . . ribbed texture.

before he could begin considering what this could be and mean to him, the night shifts. a sound that does not belong to the snapping fire plunges his heart to the ground and winds it up to race. when wild eyes finally catch glimps of a doll's movement, jayce's brain panics. shoots into overdrive. turns fear into aggression. he sees the stuttering attempts of their movements, haunting every corner of his memory until he's reliving the sprint he took right into his tumble off a cliff. until he's reliving the swing upon salo's body, a flattened mess of gore and sinew at the hexgates' lower chambers.

if she said something, he doesn't hear her— he can only hear the ragged draws of his own breath and his desperate rise to meet her height with a small, glowing hammer in his hand. ]

[deathstealer]

[ This city, it seems, has invented a myriad of shops that did not exist in the Lands Between. Despite the growths and the fading, many shop signs are still visible, hung above the concrete angle of their buildings. Shops for timepieces, for sports equipment, for specialty clothing. The advent of the deli is a particularly delightful one-- small stores with glass containers that had likely once held food, little tables and chairs to awkwardly cram oneself in amongst, and cheerful decorations long since faded behind the counter.

It is in one of these that Ranni finds that hard-eyed man again. She remembers him from the dream of the orchard and rotting fields; his strange rainbow scars, the makeshift brace around his leg, and the wary look in his eye. The look of a man who has recently suffered, and would very much like to not do so again anytime soon. ]

We meet again, in more solid circumstances;
dost thou feel any different from the dream?

[ But he seems not to hear her words, and snaps upright instead, something wild in his eyes. Ah, but she recognizes the look of a man driven mad by fear, and without her magic, she cannot defend herself from any strikes with that hammer. It would not harm her, only strip more porcelain from her shell and potentially dent the metal inside. An inconvenience, to be sure.

All she can do is raise all four hands in a universal sign of peace, to show she is unarmed, and: ]

Peace, wary stranger.
I come not to harm.

[hexrot]

[ jayce's knuckles go white at the grip of his weapon, brain sputtering in thought if he should make the first move or wait for the thing to come to him, break the porcelain-like husk looked fine in imagination, but this wasn't the mercury hammer. it woudln't do anything beyond stun it, perhaps, and give him time to bolt. jayce's breath catches and goes ragged as his jumbled thoughts run, but then—

it's speaking. a woman's voice—

jayce's eyes flutter and he flinches back, gaping through his breathing and twitching lips, eyelids and fingers. after a moment more of staring at the harmless figure and realizing, she is not what he'd initially saw in the endless night. if anything, he doesn't drop his hammer, but his shoulders give a visible sag. ]

What are you doing here—?

[ and how can she too be real? not just a phantom from his wildest dreams? ]

[deathstealer]

[ The hammer, at least, does not swing. Ranni is glad; enough of her porcelain outer shell is missing, and though she is not vain, she does not wish to lose more. Still, he is on high alert, bearing the look of a man who is expecting to be attacked at any moment. She had best choose her words and movements carefully. ]

This land is fraught with beasts, cold, and loneliness;
as such, I thought to seek other dreamers.

[ Slowly, she lowers her arms, and tucks her hands into her voluminous sleeves. Here, without her magic, this body does not move well; her mouth is still, as are her fingers, stiff metal and porcelain reduced to inanimate rigidity. She's doing her best not to give that particular piece of information away, however. The more strength she projects, the better. ]

Hast thee met others here?
For beings such as thee, company may be wise,
for warmth, provisions, and shelter besides.

[ Biological creatures -- and humans -- are so fragile, after all. ]

[hexrot]

[ dreamers, she says. a key to further his own questioning to unravel their circumstance. this . . . woman, almost part automation, doesn't move the way jayce remembers, but then again, plenty of his dream was fuzzy, misaligned and missing pieces if he thought about it for too long.

while doesn't respond outright, jayce does nod; he's met a few during his recent travels, but right now he finds himself in solitude by choice. he could've latched onto civilization, but this was not home and these were not his people. they were complete strangers that he couldn't find himself sleeping next to with ease (as if he's truly doing any sleeping here as of late). beyond that, the one company he did actively seek was fleeing from him. ]

. . . Do you remember me?

[ might be a reach too far, but he needs to document the pattern, or, a break in it. ]

i

[deltastrike]

Nay, nay, and aye! Is my answer to each of your questions in kind. Far be it for I, the exalted Champion, to balk at a challenge...but t'is also foolishness to charge into the fray without the correct precautions. For any prey greater than the lowliest of game, let alone to take on one of those colossal spotted deer which you are suggesting, it takes the proper preparations physical and mental.

[For not the first nor last time, Theseus curses that he was brought here without his trusted spear. The intact caches he managed to scrounge up contained little in the way of weaponry or self-defense items, which presumably had all been spent by those who originally tried to eek out an existence in this hostile place.]

What do you offer in assistance for obtaining thus? [Theseus can spot a witchy woman when he sees one, having one for an in-law as early as his princehood. But it is those same experiences which keep him guarded.]

[deathstealer]

[ Ah, if only she could offer assistance. Had she access to her magic, there is no beast in this land that she could not fell. But her magic has been stripped from her in this lonely world, leaving her without so much as a single snowflake or spark of glintstone blue. ]

In assistance I would offer a hearty cheer,
and mine admiration besides.

[ An amused little smile curls not on her porcelain face, but only on the spectral one beside it. Sitting here on the bench outside the library, she cannot see any of those spotted long-necked creatures, only glimpses of rats and dogs hovering in the shadows. They may not be appealing to the appetite, but those that need to eat may eventually be forced to take a harder look at these sources of potential sustenance.

The bird on her held-aloft finger twitters, a gentle sound in the chill air. ]

I know not of any nearby weapons, to my regret;
this city is rich in coin and knowledge, but not blades.
A strange state of affairs, to be certain.
Thee have a certain well-muscled look,
didst thou not bring a weapon of thine own?

[deltastrike]

[Theseus isn't going to take such questioning without defending himself and his circumstances. ] I was given nary a chance! T'was just like being spirited away whilst slumbering. It was only through such underhanded techniques that I could be captured to begin with!

[Even in slumber Theseus had to be held up with a dream, a dream he wished to wake up from. Although he cannot hypothesize how it could be done without encroaching on Hypnos' domain, he is convinced that it too must have been deliberately sent; Theseus does not like to imagine himself helpless. ]

Even now our captor knows to keep me from a spear, sword or axe. I've made due with this shield, but it's a poor substitute for my original repertoire. [He shows his back, which is carrying a shield which is more visually appropriate to the period of the city. What it shares with the living parts of it, though, is a sense of slight enchantment. ]

[deathstealer]

[ The shield he carries is strange, plain and bulky with no imagery or carvings. It looks solid enough, but indeed, would not work well as a weapon with which to hunt. A shame.

Interesting, though, that whatever being that spirited them here also divested him of his weapons, much in the same way Ranni has been divested of her magic. With it, she could easily hunt if she had a mind to. So, then, that being has removed anything that might make them a threat. Does that mean they are here, easily targeted? ]

And this land seemeth lacking in spear, sword, and axe;
preferring instead technology called guns and bombs.
If thee are in need of thy weapons,
a blacksmith thee must find, or to learn thine own craft.

[ The little bird flaps off, startled by a faint noise a couple of streets over. Ranni lowers her hands, both pairs folded in her lap. If only she were at home; she would have any number of swords squirreled away to give him. ]

If thou'rt of a mind to slay some of the smaller beasts, though,
even a sharpened stick would do.

[deltastrike]

Make no mistake, if I could be allowed a peek through the window of opportunity, then I will not hesitate to wield those endemic arms. But the limitation for combustible projectiles is the need for ammunition. [After all of their aforementioned operational issues, it would be incongruous if it had been easy to find a firearm both loaded and intact.]

The choice in weapon can be compared to how a master craftsman eyes thy repertoire for the right tool. Proper implements to accomplish a proper job. But with the correct discipline and mindset, anything can be a weapon. Even claws and teeth. I may bemoan the dearth of options, but if someone out there makes the assumption that I've been disarmed, they'll have a surprise coming to them. [Theseus looks to the direction the birds flew away from, anticipating if the noise will die down or not.]

— wrapped and quartered

[moonsomnia]

( at first, kafka chalks up the growing, nagging hum as… the closest thing to homesickness she knows. a longing for the comforts of familiarity and a measure of certainty. surely, that explains it. but that was days ago. the longing for companionship is now unsettling. she never turns away from connections, and friendships are lovely, loveliest at a distance—but this? this disturbs her. it is all the worse for the strange power that stirs in her, so unlike her familiar abilities that it further unbalances her. as if the creeping cold weren't enough.

maybe that is why, despite all she is used to and all she knows of herself, there is relief to find an amicable stranger outside the decaying record shop she treats as a respite. )

I would never turn away a potential ally.

( and this stranger inspires awe; if kafka didn't know better, she might think the other an emanator from her presence alone. the dark halo inevitably catches kafka's attention, looking more appropriate to the night that this world's apparent moon, but it's ultimately ranni's words that draw her in.)

I can't tell you as much about this world as I can about others. In fact, I might not know anything useful at all. If that's fine with you… ( kafka steps aside, no longer blocking the entrance to the record shop; she now gestures to it in invitation, ) then let's talk anyway.

[deathstealer]

[ Ranni steps into the store, her gaze roving over its innards. Thus far, she has been able to recognize the contents of some stores -- clothes and food, after all, are easy to identify -- but this one is immediately baffling to her. There are rows and rows of small rectangles bearing brightly colored art, and the only thing she can assume is that it must be some form of artwork for display. Why are they so small? That, she cannot guess at. ]

I was granted the good luck to wake in a repository of history,
and thus, I have much knowledge to share.

[ Does she mind that the other woman has little information to offer? Hmm, perhaps a little. Ranni does so love an equivalent exchange. But she will extend this information as a favor; one which ultimately may pay off later. ]

This place was called New York City;
and fell in the year they called 2023.
But in their daily news,
I cannot catch a glimpse of what befell this place.
'twas clearly sudden, and not gradual.

[ She'd mention how strange all the people looked in the photos, but... this woman, too, looks unusual to her eyes. A bizarre fashion, to say the least. Ranni tucks her hands into her sleeves, content to stand in the middle of the store and admire the artwork. ]

Hast thou caught any glimpses of danger?