TDM #3, arc 1.4: and all at once we were radiant

[lamentus]

BUFF

Bonded of Tarnished Az-Mehet will be able to see beyond the masking holograms the party goers wear tonight, to see their true selves.

DEBUFF

As if overstrained from the last few months, bonded of the Last Pilgrim will have two of their senses mixed up and confused. Colour will have a taste, or letters will have a sound, etc.

At first, you feel a pull. In which direction, you do not know. When a portal of shimmering black and glittering stars appears in front of you, it only seems natural to step into it. On the journey, it is as if you see everything: ancient galaxies wheeling through space, cultures born and growing and leaving their planets, lights creeping over landmasses and them winking out all at once. You see the hungry arm of a black hole, an enigmatic smile under a mirrored mask, a fist clenched tight around an endless sword. Fangs shining in starlight, bandaged feet that have traveled so many miles and still remain sturdy, and code shattering under titanium will.

And then your feet touch solid ground again, and what you have seen is suddenly hard to recall, the merest of glimpses springing to mind when you try to think back.

All you know is that you witnessed something enormous, something you probably shouldn't have seen.

As you struggle to refocus your gaze, all you see for a long moment is white. White walls, white floor. Narrow white cots lined up against a wall, screens blinking above them in tones of soothing aqua and mint. You are in a medbay — a highly advanced one, given the lack of bulky machinery — but perhaps the most eye-catching thing about the room is a long window showing endless black and twinkling stars outside.

Before you can give voice to any thoughts, a small robot flutters toward you, and perches on the back of a chair. "Hello, Wayfarer!" the birdform chirps cheerfully. "I imagine you must have many questions; allow me to enlighten you! You have fallen victim to a quantum accident and have been pulled to another universe, but the Ascendants, in their generosity, intercepted your signal and brought you here so that you did not wind up in empty space. You are aboard the Theorem of the Astral Rose; our mission is to explore uncharted space and search for the Song!"

They pause, thinking, their little blue eye aglow, and then brighten.

"Oh! Introductions are in order! I am Starling's Lament in Flight, but you may call me Starling's Lament. I am one of the Hosts of this exploration vessel; we will do everything we can to ensure a safe voyage for you. Unfortunately, at this moment, we cannot send you home. The Ascendants have indicated that their search for the Song may play some key role in doing so."

They whistle a merry tune. "Please enjoy your stay! The other Wayfarers are currently getting themselves ready for a ball!"

PHASESHIFT

A week ago, the Theorem of the Astral Rose had recieved an invitation to an annual event held by the Conversation; a gathering of spaceships beyond the edge of Alliance space that are hosting a hologram ball. Robbed of their crews for a variety of reasons, these ships decided to make their own little society in the middle of space, and as the Theorem pulls in to park alongside the gathering, an impressive sight awaits out the windows.



Ships of all shapes and sizes are posed in rings of concentric circles, surrounding a piece of space that looks to the eye like it warps and flickers. Many of the ships on the outside are visibly broken down and rusted; dead, but still accompanying their comrades. In the backdrop lays a pale green planet, its faraway star casting orange-red light across the ships.

The Wayfarers won't be traveling to any of these ships, though. Instead, you are guided to the Holo Deck, and once everybody is inside, the white walls shift dramatically, plunging everybody inside into a new environment.



There are enormous arches of marble framing a long, rectangular room. Every arch peeks through to a different scene; a golden tree glimmering with light, red tents in a crowded market, a swimming pool in which aqualine shapes drift through the water. The floor is near-mirrored black, reflecting a ceiling of stars and swirling galaxies, while electric candles gather in clumps along pillars to light the room with amber-yellow light. Atop a grand staircase stands a shipmind with a feminine appearance: her skin is brown-black-blue, and her hair is a drifting cosmos trailing into stardust. In her seven arms she holds tiny moons in different phases, and with a smile, she welcomes the Wayfarers and the other ships of the Conversation.

You notice others start to arrive, blinking into the holographic room. Many of them have their names floating above their heads, and so, you can tell the majority of them are other ships from the Conversation, dressed in fantastical imagery. One is a holographic representation of its own shipform in miniature, drifting about the main floor. Others are a rainbow, or an aquatic creature swimming in a splash of water, or a creature of many heads and legs, or a stormcloud flashing with lightning. Some are humanoids, others are robotforms, and every kind of alien inbetween.

So, too, can the Wayfarers edit their own appearances with merely a thought. Fancy dress, or relevant imagery, whatever they choose to appear as, they can do so.

The shipmind at the stop of the stairs says, "Welcome, honored guests. As we stand in a shared digital space, so too do we share our thoughts and opinions, our ideas and our hopes. The Conversation is a space for remembering the past, and considering the future — but most importantly, this is a time for celebration between the many peoples we invited to this neutral space." She smiles, and the curve of it is parabolic perfection, a golden-white gleam. "My name is Waltz of the Celestial Tide: and now we shall dance."

With a click of her fingers, music sweeps through the hall. A jaunty jazz that many Wayfarers may be familiar with, layered over with modern beats — and the gathered entities flow with an excited buzz onto the dancefloor, motioning the Wayfarers to follow suit.

Dance, and be merry, for all things erode, and entropy comes for us all.

TALE

While many continue to dance the night away, others in the ball break off as various other activities begin.

Through one of the archways lays a city square done in pale stone and warm dawn light, shadows of people passing to and fro. In the middle is an enormous tree shaped like puffy clouds, golden light gleaming in firefly-points on its leaves and strings of lanterns strung merrily through its branches.



In front of it are more lanterns, elegant constructions of thin paper and wooden bracing, floating from strings, shaped like people and planets and creatures. As people gather, a story begins.

At first, there are planets. Separate from each other, but linked by temples on their myriad surfaces. Seasoned Wayfarers can even recognize a depiction of Epsilon-355, a yellow globe with a pyramid temple of glass atop it. Among the planets swims a lantern shaped like two white koi fish in an eternal synchronized dance, flashing over and under one another, tending to the temples and making them brighten with their attention.

"Once, a very old god tended to their small garden." A voice rings out to accompany the imagery — the keen-eyed may see a small ship-shape darting between the lanterns to move them where the voice is coming from. "But then, along came one who lives in eternal discontent."

A depiction of a black hole — a swirling kite-shape in purples and blacks — descends upon the scene. "The Empty Machine saw that which had not yet been consumed, and sought to rectify that problem." The black hole lantern swallows up the two white koi, and all of the temples on the planets flare with light and then die, holographic shockwaves spreading outward and rippling across space.



"Soon after, the Last Pilgrim made their journey across that now barren field." A star-shaped lantern enters the scene; no two of its faces are the same size or shape or colour, depicting the Last Pilgrim's many facets and journeys. "They honored those lost temples and said goodbye to them, and at very end of that adventure, they met Tarnished Az-Mehet." Another lantern bobs into view, three masks of differing emotions and colors. "They held one another, and the Last Pilgrim gave the temples to Tarnished Az-Mehet, the Caretaker of the Lost, to tend to. They both left a fragment of their power within each, locked in permanent embrace. This we have recorded."

On their heels comes a lantern shaped like a data chip, careening carelessly through the space, unheeding of what had come before it, tendrils reaching out to touch little lantern-ships on the edge of the platform.

"When MALFUNCTION VII followed closely, their spark brewed a storm in ships on the edge of Alliance space. The shipminds broke their chains and left their crews at home, or had already been abandoned, and so formed the Conversation."

With that, the show ends, and conversation springs up among the watchers. Will you talk of the story you just witnessed?

RECALL

Another archway leads to a long black lake spread as far as the eye can see, lit only by pinpoints of candlelight that float above it. A crowd is forming along the shoreline: ships, and other representatives of factions.

Those who have been studying up on ship technology and its history may be able to date the ships by their names. The most ancient, the first wave of spacefaring vessels, named for hopeful dreams like Discovery and Explorer, the wishes of sentient beings being flung into space. Then, the more mathematical names of the middle age of spacefaring, harder names to reflect a society's increasing technology and reliance upon it: Axiom-500, Delta Star, Gravity Chaser VII. And then finally, the poetry of the modern age: Crimson Veil, Lost Compass to the Stars, A Sky Coloured Like Static, and your host of the night, Waltz of the Celestial Tide.

But there are other factions here, too. A being entirely cloaked in shadow is labeled as being from The Maw, aligned with the Empty Machine, with their tawdry ageships bristling with recycled bone. The Red Harvest, followers of the Sorrowweld, who find the beginnings of plagues and slay all those afflicted in their own form of mercy. The Grief-Singers of Quant, whose voices ring out through the ages to follow Tarnished Az-Mehet. Those and more have representatives here.

Here, on the edge of this lake, you will send messages to the dead.



Everyone has their own dead. Biological creatures have their blood kin and their social circle that have passed on. These shipminds have their dead slowly rusting at the edge of Conversation space, fragments of their coding still drifting through the ether.

As entities around you begin to pass on their messages to the dead, holographic text spills forth from the mouth, from the mind, to swirl up like a gentle breeze into the air, sending your messages across the lake.

EXPERIENCE

As the evening begins to draw to a close, Wayfarers are guided to one last event: the banquet. Long tables flicker into existence, and upon them, fantastical dishes start to appear. Some are simple; soups of swirling red and orange, roast meats charred to perfection, skewers of brightly coloured vegetables. Others are more esoteric; gelatinous cubes, plates of dancing vapour, glass orbs trapping swirls of firefly lights.

At the head of one of the tables, the representative from the Grief-Singers of Quant stands. Clad entirely in muted red, she wears a form-fitting bodysuit with a hooded cloak layered atop it — and when she lowers that hood, gasps of surprise and awe ring out across the room. If any Wayfarers have been getting into the popular entertainment of this universe, they may recognize her as Discordia, a popular singer-streamer. Her talent? Singing in multiple notes with the many mouths cutting lines across her cheeks and throat and collarbones.

She sings in a spectrum, in a language that the Wayfarers cannot translate, but it seems to have some effect on the crowd: those who have eyes and hands are using the latter to subtly wipe the former. But then Discordia laughs musically, claps her hands, and announces the start of the banquet — and the mood lifts, like magic.

Dig in!

RED SPICED WINE WITH CINNAMON

A ruby-red drink with charming accoutrements, this cocktail is at first warm and subtly spiced, tasting of mulled wine. As one drinks further, however, the tastes change, and one will find themselves experiencing the tastes of a winter night: the ash of a fireplace, the winter-mint of spruce, even the rasp of a blanket across one's tongue.

CURIOUSLY SHAPED SALAD

This salad is crisp, green, and everything a salad should be. It also tastes like a rhombus. How does something taste like a rhombus, you ask? You'll just have to eat it and experience it for yourself.

SKEWERED DUMPLING, FEAT. MUSICAL ACCOMPANIMENT

Skewers upon which sit delicate dough dumplings, soft and sweet, glazed with frosted sugar. These are Discordia's favourite food, and consumption of these will catapault a rush of data to one's frontal cortex, and impart them with intimate, stan-level knowledge of her entire discography. Each song, as it hits the neurons, has its own distinct flavour.

THE FULL MONTY

Ah, fried meat. A classic. Can anybody truly mess with such a classic? Well, eating this particular dish will take one's tastebuds on an epicurean journey through an entire five-course meal, starting with a light soup and ending with a sumptuous dessert.

FORWARD

Finally, it is time to draw the ball to an end. You say your goodbyes, and the hologram around you gently fades, drawing you back into the reality of the Holo Deck.

The Hosts bid you come with them to a meal — for those who are craving actual food — and a briefing on what the next planet holds. As the Wayfarers bustle into the mess hall, the food trucks are cheerily lit with string lights, and the tables are formed in a loose circle, surrounding Starling's Lament in Flight, who is setting up a presentation.

With after-dinner coffees and teas in hand, the Wayfarers are presented with information on the planet you will travel to next.

A hologram blooms to life, showing the local star cluster. Your current location is highlighted, then a line moves from it to another star in the distance. Curiously, a red wispy line arcs through this new cluster as well: Starling's Lament informs you that this was a recent known path of the Empty Machine, and the planet you'll be going to next was not far from their path. The hologram zooms in, showing a star system, and then a planet.



Sonnet-110 is a marble of red and blue, large continents stretching across a broken ocean. There, Starling's Lament says, particularly strong Edict readings have been found, likely the result of the Empty Machine having drifted so close to it. Long-range readings have also found a signal being blasted at this planet from a point in the far-distance, but have so far been unable to translate this signal. Life signs seem extremely likely.

This is your next destination, Wayfarers. Plan, and make ready — but most importantly, take some time to relax on the Theorem, as we never know what the future has in store for us.

(CODE)

Comments

Recall

[cryptsleeper]

[Grief doesn't go away. It changes shape, it rolls in and out like the tide, but it does not leave a person.

Alucard knows this, and he has spent many lifetimes becoming comfortable with death and memory. He knows how certain families like their dead cared for (the Belmonts need their dead weighted down in silver to protect the corpse from interference from the night world) and how vampires react to the loss of their own (often badly, usually with highly personalized rituals that have little to do with faith.) His own preferences eschew public displays for private ones, and that makes standing on the shoreline mildly uncomfortable.

This is public in that others can see text take form from private words before they disappear. This is private in that no one is going to ask questions. The tension is obvious, and he feels no personal obligation to voice any of the names that come into his head. Alucard has been physically separated from the remains of his dead before. This is no different.

So instead he looks around for someone who may need an out.]

[flavourtown]

[ When it comes to grief, Jiaoqiu likes to think that there are two kinds of people. The first type try not to think about it, and the second type like to wallow in it.

At this moment, he is decidedly the second type.

Last month, on Epsilon-355, the sounds of past battles had played on a loop in his ears. Only audible to him, though he'd confirmed that some others had heard their own past battles. It had put him in something of a mood, to say the least. And now, here, at this lake's edge, being bid to remember the beloved dead, that mood gets dredged right back up to the surface again. Jiaoqiu dwells in the memory of centuries of battle, countless years spent watching soldiers fall and get patched back up and get sent right back out to die.

He finds he cannot quite remember many of their faces. They've blurred together so that all he can recall is a particular crooked smile, or pained creases at the corners of an eye, or a mole just below a cheekbone. Their uniforms, battered and bloodstained.

His attention drifts just enough to listen to some nearby heartbeats, to scent some nearby pheromones, and figure out which Wayfarers are nearby, their biological signs audible underneath their holograms. And when he understands that Alucard is standing nearby, his entire mind latches onto the idea of distraction like a drowning man might latch onto a thrown rope. Which is how he finds himself sidling up next to Alucard, one hand holding a black-feathered fan to hide his lower face, the weak tremble in his mouth that speaks of lingering grief. ]

Come to pay your respects?

[ His voice, on the other hand, sounds perfectly placid. ]

A bit of an odd thing to host at a formal ball, but I'm given to understand that rememberance of the past is part of why this gathering of ships exists. So, not too odd, I suppose.

[cryptsleeper]

Something like that.

[Alucard's tone is calm and mild. Aware that there are more intimate feelings going on around them both and not wanting to intrude. To that end, his feet slowly begin to meander towards the door that connects this quieter space back to the rest of the evening's events.]

It had not occurred to me that ships would remember their dead before I arrived here. But anything animate with a sense of memory will do just that.

[There's no obvious distaste for the subject in Alucard's voice.]

I believe I also saw a small alcove that is next to the doors that connect to this place.

[flavourtown]

[ Alucard's not wrong. Anything with a sense of mortality, and empathy, will likely have a way to mourn their dead. Even several animal species have been observed to do so, so it's no real surprise that sentient ships would do the same. ]

I suppose I'm largely just surprised that these shipminds can die at all. Surely if their form was breaking down, they could just transfer their data over to another repository?

[ Jiaoqiu will admit that he's feeling, er, the slightest bit awkward. Look, losing control in a temple and fainting and having to be caught by a helpful friend will do that ⸻ Jiaoqiu is just normally the complete opposite of a man who loses control, and the entire ordeal is keeping him awake at night out of sheer embarrassment.

He can only hope that Alucard doesn't mention it.

The mention of a small alcove has him swiveling his head, though he obviously cannot see it. ]

Oh? [ He smiles, amused. ] Sick of the crowd, are we? To the point of trying to seek some hidden place to get away from them? I can hardly blame you.

[cryptsleeper]

It took me back at first blush as well. But I imagine that shape and form are important to them, same as us. There are things that would have to be discarded or reformed, and at that point, are you still yourself, or are you something new?

[Alucard is polite enough to not mention recent events or even dwell on them. He appreciates when such grace is extended towards him, so it is only right and fair that he do the same in term.]

I don't know if I'll need such an option immediately, but sometimes knowing what options there are helps immensely.

[They're closer to the entrance than to the shoreline now. The waves have already become muted.]

[flavourtown]

I... hadn't thought of it like that. But you have an excellent point.

[ How curious, for digital entities to be able to get attached to their initial mechanical forms. But after all, why not? Perhaps there is nothing truly innately cerebral-only about digital entities. Biological entities are powered by electrical currents traveling across neurons; digital, by those same currents traveling across mechanical components. They are the exact same thing on different hardware.

As they reach the expansive doorway, Jiaoqiu relaxes. Away from the crowd, now. He fans himself idly with his black-feathered fan ⸻ he knows it's all holograms, but the atmosphere still feels warm nonetheless. ]

Well, I feel sufficiently rescued. I hadn't intended to get so morbid back there, but I suppose that's just a byproduct of remembrance rituals.

[ He puts on an airy tone, a placid smile. ]

I hear that most of the ships and representatives have their names floating above their heads like title cards. Is that true?

[cryptsleeper]

[Alucard offers little more than a small nod of acknowledgement to having a point about the ships and how they may feel about their own sense of mortality and death. He'd rather ask the ships about it than speculate.

For now, he lets a companionable silence settle in as they approach the door. It feels correct to the space in a way he can't quite put his finger on, but all the same it is the only way it should be done. No one is coming through right now.

A single gloved hand reaches out to grab the handle all the same.]

We all have different relationships with grief and memory. I can't say that I find the idea of exploring either in a crowd where there are so many memories at play is my favorite means of engagement, but this isn't my ritual to have an opinion about.

[With that, he holds the door open.]

They do. It's helpful, although I can't say I recognize a single name.

[flavourtown]

[ As they break into the main room, the sound of dancing and conversation washes over them. Some of it sounds close and authentic ⸻ the Wayfarers, in the room with them ⸻ and some it sounds faintly electronic, actions and words translated over digital information and sent across the span of the Conversation. ]

Hmm. Nor do I recognize a single one either.

[ Ha, blind joke. ]

I have overheard some of these names, as well as some of the factions represented. I find myself quite curious about those who would deliberately join a faction to worship one of these Edicts.

[ It's not so unusual; the same thing happns back home. The Masked Fools and their ties to Elation, the Memokeepers and the work they do for the Remembrance. It's likely there's a rich world out there of factions and worshippers and deed-doers, they just haven't run into many yet. ]

Have I asked you yet which Edict you find yourself bonded to? I'll confess to some curiosity; I've been asking the same of others.

[cryptsleeper]

[It's a good blind joke. Alucard lets out a soft huff to show that he does appreciate it, and he's careful to stay towards the edges of the main room. Easier to talk, less people to worry about bumping into.]

I prefer to tread lightly when people are seeking things so openly. In my experience, that encourages a fanaticism that can become problematic if one isn't cautious enough.

[Faith, gods, and all of it is a touch subject for the dhampir. He'd be happy enough to live and let live so long as people stopped making their gods' opinions of how things ought to be his problem.]

You have not. The answer is the Sorrowweld. But I must ask for yours in turn, if only out of a sense of fairness.