TDM #2, arc 1.2: as she bends toward the sun

[lamentus]

❝I sing this to be free
I sing for you and me
I sing across the sky
To find a place of life
Where all of this is true
I bring this into you❞

BUFF

For those who are bonded to the Fathomless, they will, one night, wake up from a startling dream in which they remembered a memory they had forgotten, or had glossed over.

DEBUFF

Bonded of the Empty Machine will experience insatiable hunger this month, and will never feel satisfied no matter how much they eat.

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 on planet Epsilon-355, you may join them at any time!"

And so, you take a shuttle down to the planet; an orb of a nearly unbroken gold landmass and pale pink clouds scudding across the surface. On the journey, the pilot Host recites for you why this planet was picked: it is a possible match for a planet mentioned in a story about the Last Pilgrim, one of the most enigmatic of the Edicts. If there are scraps of the Song to be found, it may be in the path they traveled there.

PLANET TYPE: arid world
ORBITAL CHARACTERISTICS: close orbit to native sun, no eccentricities in orbit
ROTATION PERIOD: 31 hour days, 405 day year
NATURAL RESOURCES: iron-rich silicate, limonite, titanium oxides, sodium, nickel
BREATHABLILITY INDEX: safe for humanoid respiration
WEATHER PATTERNS: occasional sandstorms, very little rain
LANDMASS: 98% of planet
AVERAGE TEMPERATURE: 31c
SURFACE GRAVITY: average
BIOSIGNATURES: indicates a narrow range of native life
ARTIFICIAL STRUCTURES: none found

REFLECT

On-planet, activity is bustling.

Research & Archives pinpointed a clue in the story that would make finding the Last Pilgrim's trail easier to find: a pathway of bones that the caravan traveled upon. It is unknown how long this pathway is, or even if it still exists, depending on how long ago that story came from.

Science & Engineering, meanwhile, concluded that the golden sand of this planet is wholly unlike the sand of other deserts, made up of not just silicon dioxide and fossilized marine life, but of many inert chemicals and minerals, a scattered rainbow of compositions. Epsilon-355 was, they concluded, at one point the closest planet to its sun, and that has sown a strange field upon it: the golden ash and viscera of a star's fiery tempest and the powdered remains of a destroyed moon. It is, quite literally, made from stardust and moondust. The glass that litters the sands was put there by chaotic lashings of star plasma, whips of heat so intense they penetrated through the atmosphere and raised burned lines of melted sand over its surface. Luckily, the orbit of the planet has since taken it too far away from its star to do such damage again.

After long-range scans, Wayfarers were able to find signs that pointed to a large deposit of inert biological material that lay to the north-west.

As you pack up your camp, the weather is clear, and the sky is bright. For most Wayfarers, adjusting to the 31-hour cycle of Epsilon-355 has been difficult, but midday naps and staggered sleeping schedules have made it easier. The sand has proven to be a constant irritant when the breeze picks up, but the creatures largely prefer to hide, and there have been no more sightings of the barren-racers. It seems they travel only alongside the sand-whales, and the sand-whales only emerge after a storm.

With all of your supplies stocked on people's backs and the hover-sleds the Hosts have brought for easier travel, you set off to the north-west.



After the storm, the glass outcroppings had been scrubbed clear, and they still remain that way. The path north-west takes you through something of a valley, bordered on both sides by sharp juts of the glass, enormous spikes just waiting to impale anybody who sets a foot wrong. As Wayfarers move through this valley, the reflections feel like they are watching you, but you can never quite catch any coherent image in them outside of your own selves.

Until, that is, you happen to glance at another, and see a vision of something you regret. A past action you took, a decision you made, a fate you changed. It's a static image, like a photograph reflected in the glass's surface, and it does not fade when somebody else looks at it.

They all remain like specters lining the path you are taking, watching your every move.

DEBUT

After two days of travel, you find them.

At first, the Wayfarers find the trail of bones mentioned in the scrap of story you're following. It is just as described: a pathway of enormous bones, presumably of the last titans the story refers to. They are neatly laid in a winding pathway over and between the rolling sand dunes, bleached white by sand and time. Most of them are meters long: humerus bones three meters long lining the path like a border, rib bones twice as tall as a person creating elegant fan shapes.

On the side of the path, greater remains may occasionally be seen. Enormous titanic skeletons half-buried in the sand, watching the pathway, like they simply laid down and died as eternal sentinels.



Astute observers notice that the skulls are all pointed in the same direction, and so, that is the direction you follow, until finally, you find life.

You hear them before you see them; music and laughter carrying through the light breeze. And when the Wayfarers crest a massive dune, you look down upon a valley where there winds a serpentine path, and upon it walks a long caravan of people. You catch up to them, and as you walk alongside them to get to the front of the line in hopes of finding a leader, they all greet you warmly, like old friends that simply have not met yet.

There is a brightly painted wooden wagon with a group of old women in the back, their faces stained with red ochre, their eyes blind, and their mouths laughing. A young boy wearing red pearls leads a metal hover-craft with a pilgrim painted on the side, and a pack of young children in aquatic water-suits run with him, giggling bubbles into the water in their helmets. Young women of dark skin and magnificent wings trail in a line behind a four-legged robot, singing helio-cycle poems and carrying bowls of vivid fruit. You identify what must be the lapho-beasts from the story: huge quadrepeds built like a gorilla with hooked beaks, the size of a three-storey building, plodding along at a sedate pace, their backs lined with rolled up tents, and barrels of grain and water that sloshes with every one of their thumping steps. A small group of tall entities with featureless faces and elegant robes walk along a pair of rock-skinned hexapods. A squat creature with a head shaped like a mushroom dances alongside them all, strumming music on a long instrument that emits color and light with every note. Everywhere you look, there is music, and laughter, and celebration.



It takes a while to get to the front, but there, you meet the ringleaders of this pilgrimage. The first is a tall robotic entity with limbs as thin and straight as sticks, a narrow rectangular face, a bright red woven cloak, and a hat that resembles a dǒulì, wide and conical. Her name is Elegance, and she introduces you to her wife, Rēza, a short woman who resembles an upright moth, with large furred wings and compound eyes, her antenna waving in the breeze. The scarf around her neck and mouth is of many colors, and looks charmingly handmade, a little rough around the edges.

They tell you that this caravan has been traveling for thirty days, and they are not far from their objective. The unknown temple, they believe, lays little more than a week's travel away. Everybody you see has come here from local systems, hoping to find something in the Last Pilgrim's footsteps. Thousands of pilgrimages have been doing the same, one after the other, for eons.

Everybody, they say, finds something different. Something you did not know you needed until that very moment.

If you ask them if the Song is to be found there, Rēza laughs, and says they do not know. But perhaps, if you need it that badly, it will be what you find?

Elegance and Rēza are happy to have you travel with the caravan, and encourage you to meet with everyone. They also think it would only be appropriate for you to help with the caravan's various ventures: the story-tellers are trying to compose an epic poem to mark their trip, and the hunters are catching local flora and fauna to stretch out their rations. Or, you can join the sand skimmers, racing on their boards with brightly colored sails taking them through the dunes, scouting ahead for an oasis to seek more water.



Medical, perhaps, might be asked to help with desert-given injuries, sand rashes or injuries from the bone pathway. Engineers might be approached to help with the sand stuck in the joints of mechanical entities. Research & Archives might be pulled into hearty discussions about the story set on this planet.

FIRESIDE

When dusk begins to fall, the caravan draws to a stop, and they begin to make camp.

The Wayfarers do the same, setting up your tents and supplies. The carvan sets up in a series of circles, some small and contained to family groups, others large to hold dozens of people. Silverthorn is gathered for small fires in the middle of the circles, and many set about making dinner. Soon, the smells of smoke and dried meat fill in the air, stews bubbling with vegetables and foraged Firelight Brush roots, Speckled Runners turning slowly on spits to roast. Grain is pulled from barrels and pounded into powder on wide, flat rocks, mixed with scant water supplies to make a bread that is nonetheless fluffy and pale yellow once its dark crust has been broken open.

The caravan gladly shares their supplies with the Wayfarers with no expectation of the same in return, though it would certainly be polite. The lapho-beasts lay down so that their burdens may be taken off their backs, and slumber noisily next to the circles, curled almost entirely around some smaller ones.



Once dinner is served, the caravan turns to the members of the Theorem's crew, and begs: tell us a story.

You see, they have been traveling for a month, and they have already told each other all the stories they know. Stories from their own lives, stories that they were once told about others. Here, in this desert, the only currency worth anything is stories, and they are all eager for new ones. Is that not the domain of the Last Pilgrim? Is it not an honor in their name, to share stories of progress, of journeys, and of learning?

Children crowd around you eagerly, old men and women with sparks in their eyes lean in close, and the light-making music-playing creature of before hushes everyone, readying the crowd to listen to whatever story you choose to tell.

Or perhaps you are more content to listen as other circles share the stories they have told already, finding new details to highlight or new questions to ask. Either way, a lot of tales are being told around these fireplaces, and it would be wise to listen to them.

GLIMPSE

You spend the next week traveling.

It's not easy. On one day there is another sandstorm, and the caravan has to hunker down and wait it out. The following day is spent avoid the sand-whales and the barren-skimmers, but luckily, they don't go near the path of bones. You make friends with people in the caravan, you share stories over spiced drinks and good bread. You help where you can, and in return, the caravan shares everything they have with you.

You learn that they are here chasing a story: a rumor that visiting the temple at the end of this pilgrimage will grant them something they want. It does not cure illness or bestow riches, they say, but it gives you something you never knew you needed until that very moment. Some of the caravan have nothing besides the clothes on their backs, and some of them are wealthy, and some of them are seeking meaning. Some of them are from Alliance space, others are not.

A week later, Elegance and Rēza call the Wayfarers to the front of the caravan. You will have first honor of cresting the next row of sand dunes to catch the first glimpse of the temple. And as you scramble up the dune and peak its crest, you see it in the distance:



A long, almost mountain-like range of sand dunes, taller than any you've seen so far. Beyond them, the pale purple sky is lit up with fractal reflections in every color; atmospheric blue and x'enuda pink, the same orange as the optics of a robot family in the caravan, the gentle gold of the Theorem's shield.

Whatever is beyond that dune-range, it is giving up a spectacular light show.

They say it will take another day to get there, but for today, you will stop at an oasis.



The presence of water has allowed tall canyons to form around its exterior, so you must descend downward to find the shady oasis. The water is a perfect aqua blue, so clear you can see the very bottoms of the shallow pools. Here, there is life different from the tough, scrubby plants you encountered among the dunes: plant-life whose roots are able to draw in water from the pools, crowded around the edges of them in small clusters of orange and red leaves, white flowers peeking out among them.

First, the caravan must take enough water to fuel itself. But after that, anybody is free to take a dip, to bathe themselves or merely to enjoy the cool water.

If you do, you'll find yourself curiously refreshed, like you've just gotten the first decent night's sleep in a while. It may even cure minor wounds, and ease the aches of travel.

Tomorrow, you will finally find the temple that the Last Pilgrim visited.

(CODE)

Comments

cain | starfighter | current

[blyat]

[catch-all for closed starters to manage tag load this month! feel free to PM me / find me at snezhnaya to plot, or wildcard if you have an idea in mind.]

@greatestworks / fireside

[blyat]

[Night is swiftly approaching when they stop, stars freckling the dark expanse above, mysteriously devoid of moonlight. Cain is grateful for the moment of rest even if he'll never say as much. His chest fucking hurts, ribs bruised enough to make every breath feel like he's inhaled glass — but he doesn't think anything's badly broken. His abused face reveals more visible signs on injury where he took someone's fist several times, as well as a deep scrape on the chin that suggests maybe he was attacked by a wild cat(?). This must be why the old ladies on the caravan are so nosy; on the second night they'd insisted that he accompany them in the wagon, and since walking hurt a lot, he decided it wasn't that big of a deal, so why not?

Cain's helping one of them, a woman by the name Fahma with deep wrinkles and clouded eyes, down onto the sand when the talking starts. A campfire is burning as high as the elevated spirits sharing food and drink, while Cain's dark eyes rake furtively through the crowd for anyone he recognizes.

He spots someone tall, hard to miss, broad-shouldered and clearly at work on some helpful task or another.

At least by now Cain's connected the face to a name, someone he's had a couple of conversations with on the network, as little as he learned — not that he should be pointing fingers. Still, he hasn't forgotten those mysterious tattoos glimpsed on their shared patrol weeks ago; he's seen Phainon around a couple of times since then, but whether happenstance or not, they haven't spoken again in person.

Someone's asking for stories. Cain's just trying to find the spiced wine one of the old ladies kept telling him about, finding somewhere to stand near the fire that doesn't draw too much attention. Unfortunately, all of them stick out as other nonetheless, so when they start harassing Cain, he doesn't hesitate to throw his fellow Wayfarer under the bus.]

I think this guy wants to talk. Hm? [He sticks out his foot from where he's leaning and gives Phainon a nudge at the calf.] He owes me, anyway.

@handfast / debut

[blyat]

[The bones jutting up from a landscape of sand are intimidating. Cain keeps his distance, at least until someone else proves that it's safe — naturally the natives of the caravan don't have an issue, since this is familiar territory to them. But Cain doesn't share the same sense of assurance or accomplishment upon reaching this landmark; he only feels impossibly small and inconsequential next to enormous evidence of dead, long-gone beasts. Even eerier is how the skulls point them forward on the path, like watchful guardians of a pilgrimage Cain never actually signed up to do.

They don't really have a choice, he soon finds. It's either go forward or sit down in the sand and wait it out. And he's definitely not going to do that.

Once he's past the shock of seeing all of the weird, colorful individuals that compose the group on their long pilgrimage, Cain gravitates toward those with their own mode of transportation. The sand skimmers catch his interest immediately; it might mean he doesn't have to walk the whole way, which is starting to get annoying with how sore his ribs are. So when they make the offer of one of their boards, red sail already full with a steady breeze, he thinks he's making the best choice.

Until he realizes there's someone else coming with him. Cain hesitates, one foot on the board, glancing back.]

You're not gonna freak out, are you? 'Cause I don't wanna crash this thing if you start grabbing me. Just let me drive.

@coherer / reflect remix'd

[blyat]

[He doesn't intend to backtrack, but something isn't right about those glass shards — rising jagged from the earth, tall as the clean bones of long-dead animals they keep seeing, surface perfectly reflective of the desert sky. Cain had kept to the perimeter as a safety precaution while they traveled, so he never got a close look. But they've been on his mind since then, a vivid distraction once the group has settled down for the night.

It could be the persistent hunger in his stomach, or the fact that he hasn't spoken to Jonas in days despite catching sight of him around, a messy head either in the crowd or apart from it. It's hard not to see the other Wayfarers in such a small group when they're all required to collaborate for their own survival, but it's certainly less of a struggle when joined by strange and alien locals. Still Cain's eyes seem to find him with no trouble, watching from a distance, a little too interested in the individuals Jonas spends time around. Yazat is one of them — a friendly, talkative robot — and he seems popular with the others too, though Cain has personally avoided him so far.

He hasn't received a text yet. He figures that he should wait, be patient. It wouldn't be a good idea to approach first. Noctis said he'd help to try and smooth things over, but he shouldn't rely on that.

He should just stop caring so much, shouldn't he? It's exhausting. Maybe he's doing it all over again wrong.

Cain slips away from camp the next night, once the long day has burned down low with the embers of the campfire. His pulse rifle is slung over a shoulder as usual, along with a survival bag packed with essentials on his back. He doesn't expect he'll be gone that long, but better safe than sorry. He smokes as he walks, climbing the ridge that will take him down into the valley, guided by no more than the starlight above and a single flashlight in the dark, unaware of the tail he's picked up on the way.]

UN: idklol

[precocity]

cain-chan!
darling
light of my life
did you skip storytime?

Deimos ★ Starfighter ★ new player, oops all wildcards

[lapmouse]

 
arrival;

[ Small mercies for someone who doesn't want to be noticed: the majority of the Wayfarers being planetside means fewer people left onboard the Theorem for Deimos to try to avoid while he gets his bearings. He probably looks shady as hell skulking around the ship's interior, suspicious enough to still cast a glance over his shoulder every now and then despite the guarded (maybe paranoid) attention he's paying to his surroundings.

It's not until he gets to the upper deck that his guard drops a bit, washed out into the (awful, comforting) vastness of the surrounding space. Though he doesn't linger here much longer than anywhere else, the momentary tranquility of it helps cool his agitated nerves.

Later, tucked into the shadows of a Void Runner with a datapad and newly packed supplies for the mission ahead, he might just manage to keep himself too busy for any overwhelming sense of uncertainty to take hold of him. For now, regardless of his feelings, he has a job to do; when he eventually joins the other Wayfarers on the shuttle down to the planet, he'll have his shit together like a good little soldier. ]
 

for blyat xoxo;

[ Enough distractions here—weirdos from other worlds and bustle from hauling supplies around—that if Deimos were really lucky, he could probably keep himself just peripheral enough to be nothing more than an itch at Cain's fighter instinct for a while longer. But he's not really lucky.

He's not even looking when Cain spots him, at first, a familiar pipsqueak whose supply shop civvies aren't all that different from the last time Cain saw him working under the Equinox. If he vanished now maybe he could've even been a phantom, except that there's a healthy colour in his skin brought out by the natural sunlight, and a rifle strapped to his pack that indicates a security designation, and he doesn't actually vanish.

Though it's hard to say that's not for lack of trying. His reaction is pretty telling in the instant his gaze snaps aside to find Cain stalking toward him: the oh, shit couldn't possibly be read more clearly on his face before he books it in the other direction. ]
 

reflect - debut - fireside;

[ At least one of these new Wayfarers isn't very sociable. That's probably the first thing anyone notices about him, if they notice him. Deimos doesn't talk. At the very most he answers questions put to him with a voice that's not much more than a rough whisper, so more often than not he falls into the orbit of people who either don't mind the quiet or do the talking for him.

That doesn't mean he isn't useful.

He pays as much attention to the people he's traveling with as he does the desert around them, maybe offers a hand when it looks like one of them is pushing themselves too much even if they haven't asked for it. A flask of water, a nudge toward a path with better footing, a second shadow if someone's curiosity begins to distance them from the group.

Hypocritically, it's only when they join the caravan that he himself relaxes—grateful for the opportunity to disappear into a moving crowd. Inevitably he'll cross paths again with another Wayfarer, roped into some mundane task assisting the pilgrims, or offering a hand up onto a skimmer to scout ahead or hunt and gather resources for dinner...

...or making desperate, pleading eye contact as he's pulled into a circle of complete strangers urging him to share a story. Save him. ]
 

oasis;

[ Deimos has a certain fastidiousness about him, another bit of insight to glean from a couple of weeks of camping together. Part of it is military efficiency—he keeps his rifle clean and his pack within reach like his life depends on them (because it does)—and part of it isn't.

When he finally does get into the water, he doesn't venture far from the edge: a spot he's ultimately picked because it has a shallow incline in the shade where he can use his pack as a makeshift pillow while still staying partially submerged.

He might just be dozing off here, actually. ]
 

fireside ☺️ welcome omgggggggg

[coherer]

( Jesus, not another one. So many introverts have fallen prey to Caravaneer Yazat's aggressive hospitality, and as much as he's tried to talk him into choosing only those actively engaged in storytime, the robot refuses to listen.

So, when Deimos makes pleading eye contact with him, he jolts upright, shoving his mask—lovingly created by hand with Yazat's steady assistance from an old shell—up onto his forehead. )

Oh, uh... Hey, uh... you! I've been looking for you everywhere, man!

( Why is he making up his own sign language on the critical buzz words in this sad act of solidarity? Well, often unable to reach a deeper plane of thought than surficial, Jonas decides this is the best way to get Deimos out of an unwelcome situation.

He quickly rises and goes to him, arms extended so that he can take him by the shoulders, before the crowd can consume him entirely. )

Sorry, he's... he's stone deaf. Can't hear a word you're saying. Oh, and—Terrible storyteller. Mute, too. Completely.

who is this dweeb i love him already

[lapmouse]

[ Many times in his life Deimos has silently begged someone to rescue him from an awkward social situation. As Jonas jumps up into a nonsensical, gesticulating heroic performance, he can't help but think: this is probably the stupidest anyone has ever done it.

But what matters is that it works. The pressure of the group's attention fractures and then breaks in different directions, toward Jonas and each other, and Deimos has to swallow an urge to laugh for the sake of the eyes that are still on him when one of the pilgrims begins to question those claims and is swiftly chided by another for being insensitive.

Jonas may still have some difficulty extricating himself without being called to weigh in on the budding debate, but he'll find that despite their firm tension the shoulders beneath his hands meld easily into his guidance. A little bit of weight leaning into it, like a trust fall, as Deimos looks up at him with barely contained amusement.

Before raising a gloved hand to his face and flicking it away in a crude but legitimate sign of thanks. ]

he's your new best friend baybeeeeeeee🥰

[coherer]

( "Barely contained amusement" gives Jonas plenty to work with. And what a relief; there's no drama here, just a funny situation they've gotten themselves into together with a very clear way out. As the caravaners bicker, he offers Deimos a wink of solidarity.

We got this, bro.

Deimos' cooperative lean back makes it easier for Jonas to "fuss" over his "deaf," "mute" friend, turning with him to effectively obscure the shorter man. Having a few inches on him, in the large cloak gifted to him by Yazat and the people arguing, he adopts a hands-on-hips pose to flare the wine-red fabric out to further conceal Deimos. )

So, uh, yeah. He's heading back to camp, but hey, this is actually, like, a cool, new story for you guys to tell, right? ( ... ) Like, how embarrassing you all are.

( More protests erupt among the Epsilon-355 natives, and one of the young women in the crowd covers the eyeholes of her mask in shame. )

Okay, let's—We should go, ( he stage-whispers back at Deimos. )

oasis

[precocity]

[ lingering by the water has been ideal for all sorts of things, including observing other people who drop by—izaya would say not for nefarious reasons even if no one has accused him of anything. honestly, it is a bit of a novelty to not be the target of vending machines on the daily.

that said, it is still incredibly weird and creepy to be studying people while they are trying to enjoy fishing, a swim, or in this case: a comfortable doze. izaya reasons that getting back up is much harder to do than to just take advantage of re-enacting the life of an oasis crytid until further notice.

he waits until the stranger seems relaxed enough and then, using a stick as a crutch, he makes a very noisy shuffle-walk in that direction. surely that would wake him up, yes? ]

sickos voice yes haha yes

[lapmouse]

[ Game recognizes game. It falls to the weird and creepy people watchers to keep an eye on each other as much as, if not more than, anyone else.

This one is usually elusive, the kind that'd never get caught resting out in the open, and that's technically still true. However relaxed he seems in the moment, that sudden escalation of noise injects an instant tension into the entirety of his body: a sharp stillness that confirms he isn't sleeping even before an eye cracks open and his head turns slowly to track its source.

Wary as an animal pressed flat against the warm stone. I see you. ]

my prompt 💙

[blyat]

[At first he thinks he's hallucinating.

The desert must be getting to him — there's enough of an excuse to be found in the environment they're traversing, endless sand in every direction and a hot, oppressive sun overhead. It's just a glimpse at first. No more than a shadow in the corner of his eye, one he got so used to seeing before that it's shocking now, something very wrong. Maybe he's paranoid. Leaving their original base camp was an ordeal only worsened by bruised ribs and a busted face; he's not in a good mood, so of course he'd be seeing shit like this.

But then he checks the Security log, and he spots another name on the list that feels like ice in his blood. Deimos. Right there at the bottom, not a common name. Enlisted, apparently, at some point very recently. Cain didn't even fucking know new people were being recruited — when did it happen? Why? Shouldn't there have been some announcement? Sure, he's seen some unfamiliar faces, but this...

Paranoia no longer unfounded, he goes on the hunt. Deimos may be talented at evasion, but Cain is like a dog on the scent, and there aren't exactly a lot of places to hide in the desert. It isn't long before he sights that dark head of hair and slight figure, reads the expression on his face, sees him try to fucking run... but he's not getting away. Cain's right on his heels, shouting.]

Hey! Get back here!

🖤 bless this mess

[lapmouse]

[ Running was a bad idea. He's aware of that almost as soon as he starts moving: there's nowhere to go in a bunch of open desert that couldn't be followed, and even if he did manage to hide he'd eventually have to slink back to their small camp. With a pissed-off Cain waiting for him.

Still, it hadn't been an incorrect impulse. The question left is whether he wants to take his licks for running, for hiding, (for everything before that?) in front of a potential audience or out in the barrens where no one would notice if he never came back, and the answer to that one is obvious.

So no, he's not going to get back here. Doesn't make the chase easy, either, darting between another pair of travelers and skidding through the sand under one of the sleds to force some obstacles between them before there aren't any obstacles left. If Cain pushes it he could probably pounce Deimos, but why bother?

It won't be long before he ends up with his back to an outcropping, breaths heaving and sweat tacking his hair to the skin of his forehead, his hands held up in surrender and the full expectation that there's a punch coming. ]

debut

[demandsatisfaction]

[In only a very short time of being in this land, on this planet, Lilias has found herself developing into a bit of a passenger princess. Hailing from a country where the only vehicles around were pulled by animals or propelled by the wind, she has no understanding of how to operate conveyances that are complex and self-propelled, and she has therefore been riding along for several days on shuttles, sleds, sand-skimmers, and anything else that might take passengers on this journey.

Unfortunately for her pride, she cannot simply walk instead. Despite the support of the leg brace supplied to her in the Theorem’s med bay, her strength and stamina are not sufficient for hours of trekking across sandy, unstable surfaces. If she wants to travel anywhere at all, she will need a vehicle. And that means she will need a driver.

But it is not until she has secured a rather taciturn driver for the sand-skimmer she’s been eyeing, not until they are both about to climb into it, that she pounces with another demand.]

Please show me how to drive this contraption.

oasis, i am so sorry please don't drop my thread

[fessus]

[ In the great struggle of man versus fish, there are many rules.

Know your enemy. Know yourself. Understand the limits of your own psyche just as devotedly as you're intimate with the knowledge of your tackle. Give no quarter. Abandon the disadvantageous and chase everything else. In other words, too many things for him to maintain in his brain all at once, which is likely why when he's fishing, Noctis is nothing but devoted to his craft. He is honed in on what is likely his greatest battle of the day, familiar enough with this particular pool to realize most of the fish he's facing are small fries, but apparently a king reigns in every land. ]

Tch–! [ A last sound of frustration at the tailend of his skirmish has him yanking that rod as hard as he can, fish sailing from the surface at the same time as it jumps for freedom. Where great force meets a sudden lack of resistance, there exists a burst in movement.

Right towards an innocently dozing man.

The fish slaps Deimos right in the face, a man Noctis hadn't even seen on account of his hyperfixation, and a feeble panic response has him dropping that rod altogether with a curse. ]

Hey– Sorry, just grab it real quick, hurry–!

Reed Richards ➡️ MCU ➡️ New Player/Character

[flexpert]

DEBUT

[ Among the caravan there is one particularly disheveled looking older man with peppering gray on the sides of his curly brown hair. Hair that had been coifed and parted with fastidious hands, but was now curling from the humidity, and matching the distressed and dated suit that had succumbed to the pressures of the terrain. His button-up white shirt is covered in dirt, his navy pleated slacks torn from the terrain. His dress shoes had been the only article to survive the trip.

Now, at the behest of others in the caravan, he's spending his time alternating between mechanical and medical.

The task requires his absolute attention, and while he's more than capable of it, his bedside manner, particularly in terms of caring for injuries and equipment, leaves a lot to be desired.

With his hands already occupied, he gets to work without speaking conversationally or minding his ps and qs.

Halfway through with his hands still working and a pair of loupe glasses, he realizes belatedly that something was said. It could have been minutes or several seconds. ]

Did you say something?

GLIMPSE

[ Beside the flow of water, while it's still cool, is a man set on the shore, treating an injury to his shoulder with a hand made ointment given to him by another member of the caravan.

In front of him is a crude fishing pole buried in the sand for support, and a paper journal covered in equation work, numerical value, and he's poring over it like it holds the key to something bigger than the problems around them and the interplanetary travel.

He's so consumed by it that when his pole pulls, he doesn't register until it starts to get torn down the shoreline with a resounding thunk!

To compensate, he barely lifts his chin. Instead, his arm stretches out, across the shoreline, as the pole drags to save it from submersion. Try not to get clotheslined by the stretchy arm and the man shirtless on shore, looking more like a broke newsie than anyone capable of the feat. ]

NETWORK

tell me where you're from and when

[ there is no explanation, no introduction beyond his username: "reed" and beneath the one line is a text based equation. for those so inclined. ]

audio;

[justamobster]

[ The username attached to this account is just no. There is no other text attached either. Just an audio recording of a strangely accented, nasal-y voice. ]

Nieve, year 507. Ain't ancient Rome-- Folks've already asked, yeah? Different world.

The hell kinda math is that?

Debut

[promisedotexe]

[Clearing sand from mechanical joints is still a new issue to Elster. No sand on her old ship. And okay, her body and programming aren't up to its best. Something for her to work on.

Still. From the neck down is a synthetic shell, and her eyes have dull red lights. The Replika has had to deal with sand in her joints just to get this far on the planet. So when it's time to do her duty as an engineer, Elster will do it, helping caravan with her multitool, right alongside medical.

There was a time when she had to perform medical checkups on someone. She doesn't intend to dwell on that, but...she has noticed this man. Extremely competent work, except for something that may look highly hypocritical for her to be bringing up. Especially given the phrasing.]

I was just suggesting you speak more with your subjects.

[Pot, kettle. She just doesn't have the right person to care for in front of her.]

glimpse

[flavourtown]

I said: you need to hydrate. Here.

[ Jiaoqiu offers a metal waterbottle, cool to the touch, and waits for it to be taken.

All of the Wayfarers have been making themselves busy helping the caravan, while Jiaoqiu has been busying himself helping both caravan and Wayfarers, making sure they're fed and watered. He'd just spent the past hour cooking, and now, he's handing out water to those who are more preoccupied by working than with self-care ⸻ a sadly hilariously common trait among Wayfarers, it seems.

Still, it's not easy for him to find them. Blind, he has only his hearing (which isn't even very good right now) and the earpiece the Hosts gave him that describes what's in front of him. He's relying on finding the sounds of working, and assuming that they need someone fussing over them. Which, to be fair, is usually accurate. ]

You also feel like you're in the sun⸻ you really ought to find shade, somewhere, if you're going to be absorbed in whatever you're doing. [ That, unfortunately, Jiaoqiu cannot discern via simple hearing. ] The UV here is brutal.

network

[imhilarious]

i mean, i usually like a little more wining and dining in my get-to-know-you stage.

@laika

[bombdevil]

1991 USSR :)

hahah what the heck is that? Are you a nerd or something?

un: unita2

[abandonware]

earth. year 11945.
where are YOU from
if you're trying to figure out how the machines got us here
good luck

Phainon | Honkai: Star Rail | current player

[greatestworks]

I. R E F L E C T - en route, cw: Amphoreus spoilers, depicted murder

[ After that first encounter with the sandstorms of this planet, Phainon was severely limited in what he could contribute. During his recovery, he turned to less active pursuits to keep his mind occupied - he read, he engaged in frequent discussions, debated the possibility that this planet had been changed due to a catastrophically destructive event on the network, and more importantly, learned more about the technology available to them and how it could aid in the mission set before them. In particular, the scanners, not only helpful in pointing them in the direction of the path of bones referenced in the tale of the Last Pilgrim, but revealing much about the planet's history.

His speculation, as it turns out, hadn't been as far from the mark as he'd hoped; the Science Division revealed that the planet's proximity to its sun had, in fact, destroyed the world's moon, and lashed the planet's surface, turning fossilized life into the sand they now saw all around them, superheated into the glass formations that shone after each storm.

By the time they break camp in preparation to pursue the path of bones, Phainon has recovered enough to take an active role in the heavy lifting, if he's careful. The opportunity has him in high spirits, laughing and chatting as he helps take down and pack away tents and other supplies into the beds of hoversleds, handing out water to those taking a break in the shade.

When it comes time to depart, he's an encouraging and cheerful neighbor to have on the road, often quick to lend his aid if someone is struggling with their pack or the heat of the day.

There's only one wrinkle that changes the atmosphere entirely, as their journey takes them past the plane of glassy outcroppings buffed by the recent storm to a rippling, mirror-like shine, the dichotomy of chatting away with a lively and outgoing young man, when his reflection gazes back at him, his coat and sword splashed in crimson and dripping with gold, corpses strewn around the ground at his feet - soldiers in regalia that wouldn't be out of place in some Greco-Roman reproduction, men, women, ...even what look to be the small bodies of children, a duplicate of Phainon himself, cut down with the same sword clutched in his hand, and - to those who might recognize him - Mydeimos, with his red-marked back split open with a golden gash, gauntleted hands lying still in the dirt.

Oblivious to the image behind him, how Phainon responds depends on that of the witness. ]

II. D E B U T - the caravan

[ Perhaps the revelations of the day before have caused too much disquiet, because Phainon is a difficult man to track down during the day when they finally catch up with the caravan. This isn't to say he keeps idle; perhaps seeking the respite of a fresh start with people who don't know his name, his face, or what he's done, Phainon sets to mingling with the strangers immediately. He persuades his way onto a sand skimmer to help scout for water, keen to both learn something new and for the adrenaline-pumping thrill of a high-speed foray over the dunes. With a wealth of Amphorean literary knowledge and a particular interest in epics, he even makes suggestions for the storytellers looking to document their journey a grand and poetic manner.

Gregarious and people-pleasing, it doesn't take the man long to integrate, and by sundown of the third day, he's learned a few dozen new faces by name, one folk dance, and a couple of simple songs in a language he doesn't know.

By the time a Wayfarer catches up with him, he might be up to his elbows in wet clay, trying to fashion a mask together, or he's joined in on stumbling his way through learning a clappy folk dance as the sun sets, or lifting his voice in song with wizened old bards from worlds he's never seen. Either way, they stand out among the disparate travelers, and Phainon is quick with a welcoming: ] Come, join me. There's plenty of room and, [ with a self-conscious chuckle, ] I could use a partner.

[ In the cooling Golden Hour of the day, he's usually dressed in a lightweight pair of long pants, sturdy boots, and a compression tee. While he won't make a fuss, too much scrutiny of the markings visible on every inch of exposed skin below his throat will make his friendly demeanor cool off by tangible degrees, but he's more than happy to get to know his fellows in virtually any other way. ]

III. G L I M P S E - the oasis

[ Between the dry air, the long nights spent reciting one Amphorean epic after another, and the way Phainon's been mingling with Wayfarers and caravan travelers alike, it's a miracle Phainon has a voice left to speak with. It's still dark when Phainon emerges from his tent, the caravan so silent that, but for the deep and sonorous sound of dozing lapho-beasts, he might think himself alone.

He picks his way back up the sloping trail until he can crest the rocky walls that enclose the oasis and there he sits, his back - still tender where the lacerations from their first encounter with the sandstorm are healing - against a stone, the tube from his hydration pack hanging from his mouth. The sky grows pale, then a resplendent riot of color as whatever awaits over the mountainous dune ridges ahead of them throws its resplendent light snow to greet the dawn's first rays.

It's a morning when his voice is too hoarse from the night before, so he's all quiet grins and hands lifted in greeting when he meets those still rubbing sleep from their eyes with vigorous good cheer. He takes breakfast with a family he had entertained on a previous night, and gives their harried parents relief by running off some of their children's excess energy, letting them dangle, shrieking laughter, from his arms as he does laps around their tents.

He lends a hand wherever he can, never too proud to turn his nose up at menial and inglorious tasks, and listens intently to the stories and speculation of others as they deign to share them, his countenance warm and reassuring.

But when it comes to taking a break, he retires to his own tent, where he fastidiously scrubs off the dirt and sweat with a rough washcloth, soap, and a basin of water before he retires to the oasis to soak. It's one of the few times where fellow Wayfarers can catch Phainon without him being elbow deep in gruntwork or already preoccupied with conversation.

Modesty (and Okheman custom) means his soak is conducted while clothed, but it's nevertheless a pared-down ensemble, where boxers and a sleeveless shirt are accompanied by a sky blue and gold-edged length of cloth has been fashioned into a chiton or tunic, crossing his chest from one shoulder to the opposite hip, where it's been fastened by a cord around his waist. The cloth is exquisitely wrought, but tattered closer to the hem midway down thickly muscled thighs. Starting at the collar around his throat, almost every square inch of his skin has been covered in markings.

Just... don't mind his heartfelt, gratified noises when he finally gets to take a dip, okay, it's embarrassing enough. ]

IV. W I L D C A R D

[ DM me if you want something different, or write your own starter here! I'm easy. ]

i

[blorbo]

[To live is to regret and even Junghyeok who has lived that one life over a thousand times still has plenty of regrets. He doesn't remember every instance glimpsed in the shards, there's too many regressions for a single man to live through, but he recognises enough of them to see the thread linking them all. It's why when he sees Phainon reflections behind him he doesn't make a big deal of it.

Instead he simply offers the bottle of water back and continues what might pass for conversation from him.]

It's fine. But you should get a move on if you don't want people asking questions.

[There's a short jerk of his head to indicate behind him.]

Of all the Wayfarers to see this 🤌

[greatestworks]

[ Puzzled by his suggestion, Phainon’s smile snags on his curiosity without dropping as he accepts the bottle. The man’s response is mild. Subtle. It doesn’t prepare him for what he sees when Phainon turns to look.

It says something , says a little too much, that Phainon doesn’t startle, that his shoulders don’t stiffen. The rest is more deliberate, when he battles with the urge to cast glances around to verify if anyone else has seen it.

It’s not for him. He has long accepted that Amphoreus needs a soldier who won’t hesitate to be the monster it needs to slay a monster; it’s for them and the distress that grisly and impossible tableau could cause. To react is to draw attention, and the oppressive heat of the midday sun is so dazzling that their fellow travelers might not notice.

Which leaves the one who did. Phainon looks ahead, the sunlight carving a shadow in his jaw where a muscle jumps, and he does the only thing he thinks to do: keep walking.

It’s not for a while before he speaks, and only if Junghyeok has kept apace. ]

You’re… harder than I expected. That’s a surprising revelation.