TDM #1, arc 1.0: we drift like worried fire

[lamentus]

BUFF

Bonded of The Sorrowweld will find that the NPCs are especially friendly to them this month. Seriously, they just keep trying to give you things. It might get annoying.

DEBUFF

For those who are bonded to Tarnished Az-Mehet, you keep seeing shadows out of the corner of your eye on every screen in the ship, even your datapad. Something is lurking.

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!"

REFLECT

When you manage to get your wits about you -- it's a bumpy ride between universes! -- you start to leave the medbay. Starling's Lament has indicated that you are free to explore the ship, and nowhere is off limits to you. As you leave the cool white tones of the medbay behind, a hallway stretches out in front of you. Both sides are transparent, offering a view into the long dark of space beyond. However, unlike deep space, there is currently quite a lot to see.



On the left lays the broad curve of a planet, lush green landmass and white clouds skidding across its surface. Its star is just sinking behind it, lighting up the very edge of its atmosphere in tones of engine-burn orange and ozone blue, as long shadows cast by enormous space elevators creep across the landmasses. Its most eye-catching feature, however, are the hexagonal structures webbed across its surface, connected by fine corridors with all the geometric precision of woven spider's silk. You can just barely see the tiny dots of spaceships flowing around them, docking, embarking, shuttling between them.

"That is the Redline Trading Post." You hear a tiny whisper, and look up to see another robot — a beetleform, this time, with a shiny dotted shell — watching you curiously from its place on the ceiling. In fact, there are a number of other Hosts doing the exact same thing; a snakeform coiled around a barrier rail, a catform with bright yellow eyes peeking around the corner, a chirping droneform hovering some distance down the hallway. They're all fascinated by you. "But we will be departing soon. You will not get to taste the Galactic Snowball Nova-Cream, the shining culinary jewel of Redline. Sorry. I hear it is very tasty."

You look to your right, away from the planet and the Redline post, to gaze out into the depths of space. In the distance, there is a nebula, its gasses lit up in shades of coral pink and deep purple. It is pockmarked with stars both young and old, newborn stellar entities cradled in the depths of its life-making dust. Set against the dark of space, it is a flower in bloom.



It's beautiful, except—

The longer you look at it, the more something nags at the corner of your mind. A memory glances across your thoughts, unbidden. Something you hoped for, maybe; or something you fear. Whatever the memory, as you gaze at the nebula, a small piece of it curls, shaping in response to your memory. It is your face, reflected perfectly. Smiling, or howling in anger, or weeping.

Eventually, the nebula will go back to normal. But for now, it reflects the fears and triumphs of the new Wayfarers, a mirror held up in the darkness of space.

IMBIBE

Once you make it into the bulk of the ship, the Hosts inform you that as they have just restocked all essential supplies, they will be throwing a party in your honor, and they hope you will sample the food.

Maybe you're incredibly dubious about this. Maybe you're starving after your long journey. Either way, you find yourself in the mess hall. It's less like a traditional mess hall and more like a park full of food trucks with seating in the middle. The food trucks are bright and eye-catching, Hosts serving huge heaps of food from their interiors, as their signs advertise everything from Earthen Ancient Egyptian food (As Close As We Can Reconstruct It!) to Raxalar Black Stew (New and Improved: Now Free Of Grit!).

Real grass is underfoot, and the picnic-style seating in the middle appears to be real wood. The lighting is a myriad; whimsical string lights strung between the trucks, floating globe lights playfully dancing like fireflies, and the luminescence of a dogform's patterns and a droneform's enormous eyes and a flyform's glittering trail. The Hosts are clearly excited.

And if the food happens to have... some kind of effect?

Well, the Hosts say, that's only to be expected! The attention of an Edict may, for a nano-second, turn toward the start of this voyage, and that's bound to make anything go a little wonky. Also, they've used some ingredients from the local system, and it's only customary there to share some thoughts and ideas and memories when you eat together. How else can you properly get to know each other?

RED BUFFALO SHANK WITH SPIKED LOTUS

This may or may not look appealing to you depending on your sensibilities, but it does smell incredible. Soft, savory red meat paired with the fragrant, earthy scent of the vegetable. The Red Buffalo is perfectly seared, and if you poke them cautiously, you'll find the spikes are entirely edible, as long as you chew well enough. If Wayfarers eat this, they will find themselves sharing a memory with the nearest person, a vision of the last time they were truly happy.

UPSIDE-DOWN PLUM SPARK-WINE

It seems the Hosts aren't quite sure of the appropriate alcohol content of substances, as this will burn all the way down, chased by a cool, sparkly feeling all the way down one's esophagus. It tastes of sweetly sour plums, and a potential hangover tomorrow morning. Wayfarers that imbibe this alcohol beverage will start overhearing the thoughts of those around them, as if they are perfectly in tune with everyone.

GOLDEN BUNS WITH SPICED HONEY DRIZZLE

Ah, a perfectly homey looking meal, sweet and savory, gently steaming. These are a must-try for any Wayfarer with a sweet tooth, proudly boasting of the agricultural and apiary skill of a nearby alien culture. The buns are perfectly fluffy, the spiced honey is warming. What's not to love? After eating this, Wayfarers will find themselves and the nearest person sharing a vision of themselves as they might have been had they gone down the worst possible path in their life.

CHERRY COLA!™

This isn't the Cherry Cola! you may or may not be familiar with, but it's interesting that whatever alien came up with this came up with the same Earth word. Or maybe the Hosts got it from Earth? Either way, it's fizzy, it's sparkly, it makes you feel like you're floating on rainbow bubbles. Upon drinking this, imbibers will telepathically project outward a vision of the most beautiful thing they've ever seen.

A CAKE. MAYBE.

Dear god. What is it? Who came up with this? Who is even brave enough to try this? It certainly… has a taste. It… has an appearance. Whether either of these things are good is in the eye of the beholder. Wayfarers adventurous enough to put this in their mouths (or other eating appendages) will find themselves uncontrollably speaking aloud of the thing they long for the most.

INITIATE

Eventually, it comes time to launch.

The Hosts are a blur of activity, some of them packing up more delicate equipment in case of errant gravity waves during initial propulsion, some of them herding the Wayfarers into a seating area reserved specifically for the safety of its occupants during launch, deceleration, and rare turbulence. You are informed that engine flare will be so bright it will rival a star for the next twenty-five hours of engine start-up burn, but you will only need to stay strapped in for half an hour or so.

As the Theorem's enormous engines start cycling, the entire ship seems to hum in melodic song. And after everybody is strapped in, that's when the intensity starts. Gravity seems to want to push everything toward the stern, and Wayfarers are pressed hard against their seats with the inertia. After half an hour, the Hosts cheerily announce that everybody is free to get up and move around — but you might want to stay near a window, as they will be doing a low dive through the nearby planet's second moon's atmosphere, and it will be quite the sight.

Soon enough, the moon becomes visible. It is of unbroken crimson red, though subtle shifting in its surface lets you guess that it's water rather than earth. And then, as the Theorem rolls gently to the side, the view in the windows nearly perfectly split between moon and space, that's when you see them, swimming through the atmosphere.



To call them fish would be inaccurate — they are not in an ocean, or any body of water — and yet, that will be the word that springs to mind for most Wayfarers. Some of them are sleek and small, schooling in packs of shimmering white and ochre. Others are long and pointed, appendages pointed backward to exude a bright pink gas that propels them forward and which trails after them like oil slicks in the air. The locals call them x'enuda, the Hosts tell you, a combination of words that mean to fly and cunning prey.

They swim closer, swarming outside of the window. Some of them swim through, phasing through the shielding and windows alike, to dance gently in the interior of the Theorem, darting to and fro. If any Wayfarers find themselves curious enough to reach out and touch these creatures, they will find themselves similarly phased, capable of passing through matter for the next few minutes before the shared electrical field wears off and returns them to normal corporality. The external shield will catch you if you phase right through the ship's floor, but you may need to swim back up. Others may find themselves suddenly craving company, as if the x'enuda's instinct to remain safe in a school is catching.

FOREWORD

"All Wayfarers, please report to the docking bay!"

As you filter into the enormous cavern that makes up the docking bay of the Theorem, you see rows of smaller spacecraft. Some of them are sleek and light, like they'd be as free as a feather during aerial combat, while others are bulky and spacious. Many of them have designs in alien languages on them, or bizarre looking mascots, seemingly for good luck. As the occasional screen informs you, you are free to claim any one of the ships as your own, but first, Starling's Lament would very much like to give a presentation.

Past the rows of ships lays an expansive opening in the side of the Theorem, many stories high and wide, a shimmering forcefield the only thing between you and space. Beyond it, you can see the quickly fading shape of the planet and moons you left behind as the Theorem continues acceleration. It is in front of this that Starling's Lament has set up a large hologram of a star map.

As they start to explain once everyone is gathered, the map currently shows the region of space you are in. It is an enormous quadrant of multiple galaxies, some pinwheeled in shape, some circuler or tube-like. A line arcs across it, heading into what is clearly less-explored space, beyond the area colorfully marked as Alliance territory. Eventually, that line stops at a star, which then magnifies to reveal a six planet system, the second planet from the star circled.

This is your first objective: designation Epsilon-355.

There are many stories of which planets the Last Pilgrim has set foot upon, and yet, nobody has ever verified any of them. This, the Ascendants claim, is the closest match they have found for one of those planets in a scrap of story: a land of golden sand and shimmering glass, where pilgrimages track their way across the Golden Barrens desert. The planet is small and unassuming in the hologram, and the details next to it are scarce: relatively normal gravity, breathable atmosphere. More details will become available as the Theorem gets close enough for in-depth scans.

If there any notes of the Song to be found, they may yet be found in the Last Pilgrim's footprints.

Presentation nearly over, Starling's Lament directs you a series of tables that have neatly assembled packages of gear. Once you have picked your Division, you are welcome to claim the technological tools of its trade. You can also look at the spaceships available to claim, or even just watch out the docking bay door as you leave the planet behind and head deeper into space.

Welcome to the mission, Wayfarer.

(CODE)

Comments

Boothill | Honkai Star Rail

[muddlefudge]

i. imbibe

It's like this: Being in space (even a sector of space he's wholly unfamiliar with) is not a big deal to Boothill, Galaxy Ranger. Waking up in a medbay with no weapons and only a vague, dreamlike recollection of how he got there? That, he's not so ok with. So he might have made a tiny bit of a fuss, and he might have sworn up a politely censored storm when he went to pull a gun on the cute little bird-shaped robot only to find his gun was not on his person. But other than that, he's doing pretty good. Honestly, it's probably one of the less unsavoury situations he's found himself in.

One point in its favour? There's alcohol.

Boothill is sprawled inelegantly on a picnic bench, back against the table, hat on the bench next to him and bottle of spark-wine in hand. It's no well-aged malt juice, that's for sure, but it's got a kick like a mule and burns like rocket fuel. Suits him just fine. This is about the strangest "mess hall" he's ever seen, but it's the perfect spot for taking stock of all the other poor fools who've stumbled into this place along with him, so he lingers a while.

He's happy to chat with whoever approaches him. That's no trouble. Never mind the odd tendency to strike up conversation like he's responding directly to someone's thoughts. Maybe someone is wondering what's up with the stretch of scarred metal that's visible from his belt up to his tiny cropped jacket, or why he has jagged teeth like a shark, or whether he's really a cowboy or just a very dedicated method actor. He replies to these thoughts out loud, with perhaps just a touch of impatience.

Or maybe he catches something a little more private, or a little less wholesome, and his head jerks up as he casts around to try to figure out exactly who it was who just said that out loud. They did say it out loud, right? He heard it with his own two ears...

"Fork me, that the kind of thing you go blabbing to just anyone? Ain't you ever heard of tact?"

ii. foreword

So they're to be scouts of some kind. Sounds easy enough, even if he has no clue how they're supposed to find this song the little robots are apparently after, or what exactly it is. What do they need a song for anyway? Can't they just make a new one?

All that chitchat over, he of course heads straight to the Security Division tables, hoping to find a gun to replace the one he'd lost. And... look, any self-respecting cowboy knows how to shoot a rifle, but this just doesn't fly. So no sooner has he picked up his assigned gear can he be found trailing after a small rabbit-shaped robot who looks a little too eager to be rid of him.

"Look here, I'm just saying if you want me to be shooting varmints you're better off giving me my piece back. Six-shooter, 9 millimeter, real classic... Come the fudge on, one of you shirtbags has gotta know where it is. Hey, I'm talking to you!"

Later on, once he's finally given up (or been persuaded to leave the poor robot alone), he busies himself inspecting the ships. Naturally, he's going to claim one for himself, but he's got to find just the right one. He passes by the bulkier models, tutting and mumbling to himself... and then he sees her, and lets out a bark of laughter.

"Would you look at that, her smile's almost as pretty as mine."

She's smaller, but not too small, just right for a Galaxy Ranger who spends their whole life travelling the stars. A little scarred, just like him, and the decal on the side looks something like a shark, grey and black, with too many fins and a wide grin showing off countless pointed teeth. Clearly it was meant to be.

iii. wildcard

Feel free to throw anything else at me if you've got something in mind! I was going to do more prompts but I'm late enough to the party as it is and just wanted to get this up already. You can reach me at warpaint if you have any questions or want to plot. Also I'm happy to match format if you prefer brackets, no problem.

Side note: I'm still voicetesting this guy so please bear with me. Also I've only just reached 3.0 (currently being cockblocked by a bug that won't let me progress any further in the story) and while I'm not too bothered by spoilers, I am not familiar with anything later than that.

>> FOREWORD; fancy hat club? fancy hat club.

[justamobster]

Ladon's got to admit, that ship is slick. Way too flashy for someone who likes to avoid catching anyone's eye (especially any lawmen), but he'd been tempted, and passed it by in favor of something with more carrying capacity. He's got a feeling smuggling is going to wind up being his calling in this strange world, just like knocking over banks was for the first few years in the previous one.

But he's still working out the details, and making connections. And the latter is important. He was hoping someone would pick out the sleeker, faster model that would maybe be amenable to a less-than-legal partnership.

He overheard this fella's protests about his gun and... creative vocabulary. He likes his moxie. So Ladon sidles over, hands tucked in the pockets of his woolen duster, and lets out a low whistle as he admires the chosen ship.

"S'one pretty l'il machine, yeah? Congrats."

fancy hat club! also damn I need to find more icons for this guy.

[muddlefudge]

Boothill likes flashy. Flashy gets the IPC's attention, draws them out into the open where they're easier to pick off. Not so much a concern here, outside of corporate space, but you know what they say about old habits.

"Sleek like a bullet." The grin he throws over his shoulder at Landon mirrors the shark decal, showing off rows of pointed teeth. Like two peas in a pod. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say she was made for me. Didn't have your eye on her, did you?"

If he did... Nah, Boothill's not sorry. She's his now.

[justamobster]

He holds his hands up in mock surrender, shaking his head. "Nah, ain't one to come 'tween a match made in Avalon, yeah? Got a feelin' I might need more cargo space anyhow. Speakin' of bullets, though, any luck gettin' your piece back? They nicked one offa me, too."

[muddlefudge]

Oh no. Oh no, don't mention the gun. He'd been so happy with his new ship he'd almost forgotten the gun. Instantly his face falls, not quite a scowl, not quite a pout, but definitely sulking all the same. He folds his arms and lets out a little huff.

"Naw, those fudgeheads won't give me a straight answer," and he can't tell if it's because they really don't know or they don't want to tell him. "They say things just get lost sometimes. Can you believe it? But then one of them, he says we can get them back, but we gotta earn it. Now that don't sound lost to me."

[justamobster]

"Earn it. That ain't lost. That's good ol' fashioned blackmail."

So they're holding their weapons hostage, huh? Considering he's already hitting nicotine withdrawal, that information may just be enough to push him to get gashouse sooner rather than later.

[muddlefudge]

"That's what I said, brother. But they tell me there ain't nothing they can do about it."

He hefts the pulse rifle he'd claimed along with his Security Division package, eyeing it distastefully. Any gun is better than no gun, he guesses, but there's just no replacing the classics.

"Look at this thing. The heck do they expect me to do with a peashooter like this?"

[justamobster]

"Saw those, almost got suckered in by 'em. The day I wear a badge's the day I eat a damn gun." He folds his arms, looking thoroughly put out by the whole idea.

"One bright spot's that there're tradin' posts and we got wings. Next one we get near, I'm gonna find somewhere outside this fuckin' pettin' zoo to get cigarettes, decent weapons, and bullets."

Because come on. Bullets work fine, no need to go replacing them with silly space vibrations.

imbibe

[blyat]

It isn't his fault. It's just an errant, passing thought. Everyone has privacy within their own mind, right? He wouldn't have said it aloud, probably, not without clear provocation. A green light or some blatant signal. At least a basic introduction, since he's never met this person in his life — he just happened to be passing by that specific picnic bench on another walk around the Mess Hall when he saw the strangely dressed, unfamiliar guy sitting there.

Holy shit, he's kind of hot. Are those abs real?

What he doesn't expect is to be spoken to. Cain freezes, an owlish expression on his face as he tries to decipher the words. It caught him by surprise enough that his brain lags before he can think of a reply.

"Huh? Uh, you talking to me?"

[muddlefudge]

Is he talking to Cain? He's... Well, actually he's not sure at all, but he narrows his one eye at the stranger like he's sizing him up. He knows he heard someone, and this fella looks to be the most likely suspect, on account of the fact that he just happens to be closest right now.

"Maybe I am. That's a guilty face if ever I saw one." Though if Boothill doesn't really sound like he minds all that much? Well fine, he doesn't, he has eyes too. Look, his reaction definitely has nothing at all to do with the fact that compliments tend to get him a little flustered.

"All I'm sayin' is you could at least buy a man a drink before you go spouting shirt like that."

Just ignore that he already has a whole bottle of spark-wine he's half way through.

[blyat]

What's wrong with his face? Guilty? Cain's brow furrows, trying to cover up his own reaction as if it might reveal his inner thoughts — unaware they've already gone ahead and crossed that bridge.

"I didn't say shit."

Although in the lag of his understanding of the situation, a few more criticisms come to mind that Boothill may overhear. Such as: are his teeth real? and he talks weird, although there's a more subdued is he flirting? which is plenty enough to maintain interest. Dark eyes drift to the bottle of wine, narrowing.

"Can't buy you a drink when it's all free, anyway. What are you drinking? Maybe you should slow down, weirdo."

[muddlefudge]

Boothill is about to retort that he heard what he heard, but he pauses, mouth half-open and a look of puzzlement spreading across his face. Cain is still talking, except he's absolutely not talking. Or at least, the things that Boothill is hearing are not coming from his mouth. Probably? Unclear, because he does talk and those things do come out of his mouth and that just makes it all the more confusing because sometimes these two things overlap in impossible ways.

Maybe if it were even still possible for him to get drunk, he would consider that an option. But it isn't, and he's not, so...

"That ain't the point. How're you doing that?" He gestures at Cain with a slosh of the wine bottle. "You one of them... what's the word again? Them folks that can talk without moving their mouths. You're pretty good at that."

Because ventriloquism is clearly the most likely explanation here.

[blyat]

It dawns on him, then, what this could possibly be. That crazy girl in the tree had showed him, even if he'd been unwilling and more than a little reluctant to believe her. Even now, his first idea is that he should turn around and leave, because the last thing he wants is some guy in his head, but as long as he keeps it all on the surface, would it really matter? And this would just keep happening to the next person.

Shouldn't he figure out how they (the Hosts? the Alliance?) even managed to do something like this? Like, what kind of science would make it possible? It's too fantastical to consider.

"Fuck," is the intelligent response. There's an echo of the thought, though the curse in his head is untranslated Russian. "Look, it's... probably what you're drinking. That alcohol." He points to the man's bottle. "Uh, I think you're hearing my thoughts."

He tries testing it this time: Like this, can you hear it?

[muddlefudge]

Oh. That's... Let's just say it takes a moment to compute, Boothill's face shifting through several expressions, from open-mouthed surprise to a confused wrinkle of his nose to a look of utter betrayal aimed at that bottle of spark-wine. Mind-altering substances are one thing, but this is a whole other level.

"Well fudge me sideways." Also an intelligent response. He brings the bottle to his nose and gives it a sniff like it might be poisoned. "What d'you reckon they put in this stuff?"

More importantly: Does it wear off? Reading minds might come in handy in certain situations (it'd make interrogations hell of a lot easier, that's for sure) but it's not something he wants to be dealing with every time he walks past some stranger in a hallway.

Decisively, Boothill upends the bottle and tips he rest of it out on the grass.

"Ain't nothing sacred around here. Guess that means you owe me one."

[blyat]

Fudge me what.

There's a look of pure confusion on Cain's face, like that was such an unexpected thing for the guy to say that he doesn't know how to deal with it. Well, not like it's the first time he's heard people talk weird since waking up here. It just makes him wonder if he's trying not to curse for some reason? Why would he bother?

Too late, he remembers all of that going through his mind is going to be communicated telepathically. Cain makes an unhappy face, thinking maybe he should tap out of this conversation sooner rather than later.

"I owe you one? Hey, I could've kept that to myself, but I told you what's up."

imbibe;

[asternal]

He can't be blamed for scientific curiosity, can he? He's been flitting around the Mess Hall for what feels like the whole day, his interest piqued by all the foods and drinks he can't have, an eclectic spread so colorful and (probably? it's hard to place a bar for what's "normal food" anywhere when you can't eat things anyway) strange that he can think of a pair of twins who'd gladly give their own culinary examination of what's available.

If someone's half-man and half-machine... Where does the drink go?

It's a question he's wondered from time to time even before arriving here, albeit about someone who's small, rotund, and 100% machine as opposed to 50%. But as a wraith-like boy wreathed in flames, he's probably the actual last person who can say a thing about someone else's biology.

[muddlefudge]

Boothill had seen this kid drifting around the mess hall, which is the only reason his reaction upon looking up and catching his eye is a sort of brief, open-mouthed startlement rather than anything louder. There are lot of unusual sorts across the known universe, so a kid that looks like a ghost (a ghost that looks like a kid?) is... fine. Totally fine. He can deal with it.

"Who cares where the drink ends up, long as it burns right? Now don't get me wrong, this ain't no malt juice, but we take what we can get." That'll change soon enough, once he learns there's a bar on board, but for now he takes a swig, as if to prove a point. And then something else seems to occur to him, and he waves a hand dismissively.

"And it's more like... ninety-five percent machine. Not a whole lotta meat left on this here carcass."

[asternal]

That sounds like something Sirei would say...

One day, he'll learn that he can't simply compare anybody and everybody who takes a swig of an alcoholic drink to Sirei, but today is not that day.

So if I ever touch him, I'd only have to avoid five percent—Wait, did I say that...?

His eyes widen and his mouth opens to let out a rather undignified "Huh?". Despite spending the time he has in the mess hall, he's yet to clock that stray thoughts are being caught and conversed with, courtesy of his curiosity and desire to not startle anyone too badly by lingering around crowds.