❝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)

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ Pilgrimages are supposed to be trials, so Vincent ignores the hollow pit in his stomach with the same pragmatism that sees him through most things — the heat lies about your needs. It causes hunger because, in reality, your body craves water, but the moisture gained from eating isn't worth the energy. Not out here.

If it were up to Vincent they wouldn't be traveling during hot hours at all. But not his issued orders thus not his consequences to bear. The Hosts seem confident they have plenty of water for everyone anyways. Who's one lone merc to argue?

Reed would do well here... springs up the errant thought. If they ordered him to jump off a cliff, he'd ask how high.

The hunger-thirst must be stronger than thought possible. As Vincent moves through the path, in every single pane of glass rests the image of Reed, most arresting a neutral-faced, mortally-wounded death portrait. Cause of death — gunshot wound at the center of the forehead. ]

Don't regret killin' ya, Reed, regret the way I did it. Should've been my fists. [ God knows he, out of all people, knows how much it sucks to go out via bullet to the brain. ]

[ Dusk now. After hours of doing whatever tasks needed to be doing — fixing up broken bits on the skimmers, helping hunters butcher animals he's never seen in his life (bad idea with the pangs of this unceasing hunger) — Vincent wants to unwind, not entertain necessarily. But he understands too well the value of socializing in his hostile environment. The friendships he strikes up tonight could save his life tomorrow.

And the kids are asking. Even if half of them appear to have too many limbs, too many eyes, they're cute in their own way — like he's befriending the insects he used to collect, but these are people and they can talk to him. ] My people are from the desert. We roam it too and, as you all know, sometimes you get fuckin' lost. [ Laughter, sounds of agreement. ] So, we use songs to call out to each other. And songs are stories, so... [ A calming silence fell over the eager audience. Vincent clears his throat. Unable to stare into the crowd of expectant onlookers, he closes his eyes, exhales, then begins: ]

Haru koro no hana no en
Meguru sakazuki kagesashite
Chiyo no matsu ga e wakeideshi
Mukashi no hikari Ima izuko
Mukashi no hikari Ima izuko

Aki jinei no schimo no iro
Nakiyuku kari no kazu misete
Uuru tsurugi ni terisoishi
Mukashi no hikari ima izuko

[ His voice, which lacks professional polish but makes up for it in soul and a natural sense of rhythm, rises higher, follows a long-memorized tune. Slowly, Vincent opens his eyes, locks eyes with a fellow Wayfarer, and smiles softly. All his nerves seem to vanish. ]

Ima kojo no yowa no tsuki
Kawaranu hikari ta ga tame zo
Kaki ni nokoru wa tada kazura
Matsu ni uto wa tada arashi

Tenjokage wa kawaranedo
Eiko wa utsuru yo no sugata
Utsusan toteka ima mo nao
Ah! Kojo no yowa no tsuki

[ Stops. Looks around at the crowd. Takes them a bit to engage but, once they do, human and not-so human sounds of applause and other sounds of approval make the verdict clear. ]

GLIMPSE ^{NETWORK TEXT}

[ Someone's having a great time now that the waters have eased all his aches and pains, as well as their impromptu concert going well.

So much so that it's time to go back to his favorite way to unwind: ]

Come to the oasis in the next 35 minutes if you want an ass kicking.

WILDCARD

[ OOC: As always, game for anything. Send me a DM or contact me over at tsuchinoko ~~if you want an ass kicking~~ want to set up a different scene! (,,>ヮ<,,) ]

Edited 2026-01-03 02:25 (UTC)

I've got nothing but respect for human tenacity, but I'm approximately three times your height and weigh several tons. I don't think it would go the way you seem to think it will.

Beat the shit outta a Militech Chimera with my bare hands. Try me

i can think of a few better ways to spend time in a natural hot spring

do we really need to fight each other?

❤️ 

1. I'm gay
2. The inherent homoeroticism of two dudes fighting fuels me

But hey I can chill too. Just not what I'm looking for at the moment — couldn't spar till now

Edited 2026-01-04 17:19 (UTC)

1. me too!! well. bi. but two women fighting is just as sexy especially if there are wet clothes involved. i'll wrestle another sexy woman if she shows!!
2. okay so if everyone's consenting adults ... can i watch? 😍

1. Can't say I agree with that, but you know — biased.
2. Yeah. Sure. Why not. Helps to have fans.

i'll bring my pompoms!! 🎉🎉

[ Johnny was out having a smoke a few inches away from the campfire (he didn't want to smoke around the alien kiddos; it's bad for their health) when he hears the singing. He glances over his shoulder to spot Vinny there singing to the kiddies by the fire. While those cute little kiddos look very different from typical children, you can tell they're still children despite the extra limbs and eyes. They seem delighted to hear V sing, even if they can't understand the words.

Johnny smiles as he listens. He is so focused on the song that he almost forgets about the cigarette hanging from his lip. He takes two more hasty puffs before tossing the cig into the sand behind him. Vince's little performance is over by the time he ventures over, the brief silence now filled with applause.

He flops down next to Vince, wasting no time to curl up against him like some mischievous feline. ]

Startin' a singing career now?

Just thought it kinda sad we're all sittin' in front of a bonfire but no one's singin'. [ Can't explain it, but ever since the forced fusion by the Relic, it's as if Vincent can't stop thinking in song.

The nomad clans have their own stories, passed down orally from generation to generation. All the good ones seem to pick up a tune as music makes words stick better, conveys emotions twice as hard as mere words. Describing the hero as sad is fine, but composing a chord striking a balance between melancholy and hope?

Much, much better. ] 'Sides, everyone had enough of fucked up stories. Might as well bring the kids somethin' nice from the Meiji era. [ Massages his throat for a moment, then leans towards Johnny, leeching off some of his warmth. Despite the bonfire in front of them, the desert's cold cuts through. ] Looks like I picked up more than just playin' the guitar from you.

[ You tell yourself you're not gonna be a guy who noses in on people's trauma reflections. It's the principle of the thing. This planet wants to play a sick little game, get into everyone's heads, the best thing to do is not give it that.

And Dean has held true to the principle, as much as he can. Head down. Not his business anymore than his own shit is anyone else's business.

He just loses the fight against his own antsiness anytime people get to talking at the things. Something about it-- that familiar undertow of old memories, remorse, whatever-- he doesn't have it in him to walk past and leave well enough alone.

Dean makes a point of not staring that reflected image down, though. ]

If he was the type who would've appreciated the fists, you gotta figure he still appreciated that you let him see it comin'.

[ Local man could title his biography "Gruff, But Not Unkind" if he wanted. ]

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

BUFF

DEBUFF

V | Cyberpunk 2077

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