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theorememes2025-11-03 08:07 am
TDM #1, arc 1.0: we drift like worried fire
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!"
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.
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?
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
"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.
foreward - in the end, I decided to make it hard
A few interactions stand out with stunning clarity amidst the daze — a chance encounter with a blind man with the ears and tail of a Dolosian, if the thieves and gamblers of Dolos had taken vulpine traits instead of feline. Jiaoqiu was his name, a chef (or a healer, or both), with information about the alliance forming outside of their world to face the calamity with which he was intimately familiar. That one still looms large in his thoughts, preoccupying Phainon through the following quints. At any moment, he half expects it all to shatter behind his eyelids, and find on the other side swaying fields of golden wheat and another journey, bloody and grueling.
The moments and quints pass without cease, and he is one among many, listening to their destination, words rolling over his distracted attention like the tide. He should focus. This information is undoubtedly important, but what weighs heavier still is the fate of his world and his last role in it, now vacant, his hopes hinging now on everything left behind.
The presentation concludes. Around him, other Wayfarers move to select what good they'll do here; purposeless, will picking one be the same as accepting that he has abandoned his post? Ridiculous. There was never any other choice but to keep moving. Yet... mired in his thoughts, Phainon isn't uprooted until he spies a particular configuration of red and gold that makes something in him lurch violently in recognition.
He had thought — with no small measure of guilt and regret — he had been the only son of Amphoreus to be plucked from what they called a quantum accident. Spurred to move despite feeling like he's been plunged into icy water, he closes the gap, sidestepping around another Wayfarer inspecting the contents of a chosen kit.
Impulsively, a shout rises before he's even come within reach: ] Mydei!
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By the time Mydei lifts his head, his smile is gone — but its vestiges linger around his eyes, his dark lashes lower than usual as he searches for Phainon's white mop. It doesn't take much time at all to see him bumbling his way past someone, so hasty he's let his feet grow careless. ]
You're here. [ He answers, confidence dripping from his voice. He struts forward, so eager he doesn't even remember to set the restraints back down before leaving the table. He holds them in one hand, the other dropping to his hip.
There are many more things to say, questions to ask about the end of the Flame-Chase Journey. But for now, he wants to savor this moment. ]
no subject
In the end, he doesn't know if any of them would be a comfort for anyone but himself; Mydeimos has long battled alone, a chapter that has once again closed. A conflicted, helpless smile starts to pull up the corners of his mouth as Mydei saunters towards him. He doesn't know that he deserves to. His eyes drop at that, and there he finds something he can say. ]
As are you, [ warm words, etched deep with complication.
He immediately affects the sly tone that often accompanied his brazen challenges, offering a goading explanation for the shackles dangling from Mydei's hand. ]
Are those for our next match? Lacking confidence that you can beat me, that's not like you at all!
[ They aren't. He knows it. He knows Mydei knows it. Can he help himself? Read the atmosphere at all? No and, willfully, no. ]
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His head tilts, his expression cocksure even as he lets out a dismissive hmph. ]
Speaking before you even have a chance to think. [ Mydei lifts the restraints, swinging them from the tip of his finger. He could call Phainon an idiot and leave it at that, but since Phainon's being needlessly obtuse, why should he? ]
There's only one person here who needs an advantage, and they're not the one holding the restraints. [ Quickly, Mydei folds the cuffs, gripping them in his palm. ] But let's save testing them for later.
This way. [ Mydei turns quickly, grabbing what is probably his pack (and if not, someone might end up with no cuffs while he gets two pairs, oops) and walking straight out of the room. ]
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He missed this.
Maybe that shows when he scoffs with a laugh as Mydei turns that one around on him, gripping the cuff like it's a weapon more than a deterrent. When his eyes pursue his retreat before he glances down at his own hands and blindly snags at the first kit his hand falls upon, swinging it shut before he starts after him with it tucked under his arm.
He calls after him, probably slow down, though that hardly matters other than the wild, irrepressible thought that, illogically, losing sight of the man might mean he disappears as though he's nothing more than a mirage. This is a boon; there might be more expected of them here in the hangar, such as choosing a vessel, but first things first.
When he lopes up to Mydei's side, there are fewer others now to overhear, ] How many more made it?
[ That's an easier question than the other one that hovers at Mydei's back. ]
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For some reason, though, Mydei's steps actually slow — not obviously, of course. He doesn't suddenly stop, doesn't shorten his pace so much his steps are closer to a sluggish crawl than a walk. It's just that his stride isn't quite as long, and his soles don't land on the hard ground quite as quickly as they did before.
It doesn't take Phainon long to catch up, and when he does? He asks the exact question Mydei has been holding in. This time, it isn't an exhale that seizes Mydei's chest, but an inhale. The sound of it is long, almost anguished, as he shakes his head. ]
...I don't know. [ How could he? How could he know anything that happened after —
He stops the thought there, ending it before it has a chance to come to fruition. ] You're the first from Amphoreus I've seen.
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The kit he has grabbed for himself is squashed against his side under the swell of one bicep, where it stays, because Phainon has a lot more to be preoccupied with than to be wasting time trying to walk and close up this kit at the same time. Such as Mydei's pained inhale, and the implications of the sound.
He might as well have pierced him with those words. Phainon regrets them only a little; it was just a matter of time before the subject was broached by one or both of them. Some sliver of hope in him still clings to the idea that if a man resolved to die for deliverance and a man who has already done so countless times could yet live - and exist - in whatever place this is, then there's still a chance.
Phainon will not curse the gift he has, however. Mydei is here. ]
They called this an accident. Be it fate or coincidence, I am glad to see you again, Mydei.
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Among all the Heirs, there are few he knows half as well as this man. They have fought for days and nights without end, have laughed together, bathed together, and spent countless quints in one another's company. To be without him isn't the same as being without a limb, but there's no doubt his absence would've been noticed. Phainon is —
Another thought extinguished, doused before it can fully form. Yet Mydei glances over, his amber eyes taking in the silhouette of Phainon's face. ]
And yet the first words out of your mouth were about a pair of restraints. [ Despite being the truth, it somehow feels dishonest to bring it up.
But what else is he supposed to say? Phainon has a way of speaking tenderly without meaning to, merely by speaking of his feelings. That sincerity, rare yet perfectly timed, always takes him by surprise, leaving him grasping at how to answer. ]
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Didn't hear any complaints from you. [ Like he'd ever, with any real meaning; in fact, Mydei's often been that way, playing along unless something of greater consequence still needed to be addressed before humoring Phainon's terrible ideas.
His smile slants a little; he's troubled — likely about the fate of their world, as Mydei surely is — but rallying himself and, without the many eyes of others on them, it might well be for his friend's sake. In truth, it's not only the fate of Amphoreus that weighs on him.
There's so much to say, and now... there's the matter of picking out the pieces that will reassure, leaving behind the parts that invite more questions, ones he isn't prepared to answer. ]
Anyway, who cares about that! You must be burning to know what tidings I bring, right? Glad ones, by the way.
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If he had good news, why did he ask him about Amphoreus? Why make him wait, playing with cuffs and following him down the hall? With a click of his tongue, Mydei's head turns again, facing forward as they walk briskly down the hall. ]
You have news? [ If he sounds unhappy, it without reason. From the moment he arrived, he's done little but think of their home. Now, he finds Phainon may have kept word of it from him, intentionally keeping him in the dark. His tongue presses to the roof of his mouth, disparaging the man at his side.
As critical as he may seem, though, he isn't actually angry — through the quints of worry, one thought clung to the forefront of his mind. And that is — Phainon. As strange as it may seem, he truly believed Phainon would become Amphoreus's Deliverer. None were more suited to the role than him, and none would give more than he to save their home. So despite everything, despite his companion's failure to take the name of Strife, he knows that Phainon must have passed Kephale's trial finally brought Amphoreus to its next dawn.
His edges finally begin to soften before he speaks again, his tense shoulders lowering as he prepares to hear what Phainon's going to say. ]
I'm listening.