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

Sunday | Honkai: Star Rail

[weekending]

1. SUPPORT - NETWORK from @ networkday

[ Once the decision has been made and the schedule set for when they'll break camp and set out, Sunday posts a message on the network ]


Last call if anyone needs anything specific off of the ship. I am making a final supply run on behalf of the Support Division and will be leaving in approximately 1 system hour - though you will have a small grace period while I am in transit if you're late. If you don't have it by then, you will have to either get it yourself or make do without.

Alternatively, if there is anything you don't wish to carry on the trek, you can bring it to me, and I will see it safely back to the Theorem.


[ After which Sunday can be found flitting between the various other divisions checking that everyone has all the scanners, sample collection equipment, etc. they could want -- and then triple checking the food, water, and spare filter inventories as he makes notes on his tablet. Got a request? Look for the halo.

And once he's done making the rounds, he can be found briefly stopping by his own ship to apologize to The Tempered Warmth of Porcelain in Direct Sunlight for leaving them behind (alas, the supplies take up more space than his ship's cargo hold has room for) before he finally winds up at the shuttle, chatting with its host pilot and getting anything that needs taken back to the Theorem packed away. He doesn't mind being interrupted, though if you stand in the way he will ask you to move. ]

2. FIRESIDE - Clockwork

[ At first, Sunday is a little hesitant - not because he has any compunctions about sharing stories but rather because it's difficult to simply pick one out of the blue like this. He prefers to have time to think these things over and prepare - to decide on what kind of message he wants to leave his audience with. However, as he looks at the eager and expectant shine in the eyes of the children crowding close, he makes a decision and smiles gently at them, his headwings relaxing with a flutter as he settles in. And as he speaks, it quickly becomes clear from Sunday's cadence and enunciation that he is no stranger to public speaking.

The story begins, as so many do, with: ]

Once upon a time... there was a ship called The Compass, known far and wide for being crewed by daring adventurers always ready to set sail into the unknown. They often welcomed new friends ready to join them and bid fond farewells to crew mates who found their calling in particular new lands they visited, and we could sit here all week, and still I wouldn't have time to tell you of all of their journeys. But I will tell you about a few of the adventures of one of their most colorful crew mates: A magical living clock named Clockie, and his two best friends, Captain Revolver and the Mirror Princess!

One such adventure began when The Compass was acquiring supplies from a passing Crocodile Trader. The trader apologized for how sparse some of his wares were, telling them all about how he'd had to send a lot of his usual supplies off to the distant mining town of Nightmareville. Turns out, there were massive riots going on there, and the townsfolk were attacking the local Crocodile Traders and setting fire to their mine because they wanted to steal it for themselves! Sensing their intrigue, the Crocodile Trader added with a gleam in his eyes, "I'm sure Boss Stone could really use the help in getting everything settled again peacefully. No one wants to see anything else destroyed, after all..."

[ And so Sunday proceeds to recount the thrilling tale of how Clockie, Captain Revolver, and the Mirror Princess first venture to the mysterious town of Nightmareville! He even does proper character voices for each character - Clockie gets a sort of Mickey Mouse-like chipper falsetto, Captain Revolver gets a slightly gruff sounding voice, he does his best at a more feminine pitch and tone for the Mirror Princess, and of course every new character introduced (even the evil Crocs!) get their own voices distinct from the narration.

Even his wings get into the story, folding and spreading to match the mood of the scene - they droop and curl in as he speaks of how gloomy and oppressive Nightmareville is (the only friend they manage to make is Mr. Soda, a strange Soda Bottle selling soda who warns them to be extra careful) - and then they flare wide in exaggerated alarm when the trio are ambushed by Brother Hanu, a strange but very cool wolf man with a rocket launcher...! Brother Hanu is all set to blow them up if they don't surrender, but suddenly, Mr. Soda appears to intervene, assuring Hanu that they're not with Boss Stone! With a reluctant (but still very cool) hmph, Brother Hanu lowers his rocket launcher and invites them all back to his hide-out. There, Mr. Soda tells Clockie, Captain, and the Princess all the truth about how Nightmareville wasn't merely a mining town. No, it was practically a prison, run by Boss Stone and Crocodile Cronies. Day after day and night after night, those cruel crocs forced everyone to mine for jewels in extremely perilous mines, not caring who died as long as the money kept coming in. ]

"But then, when a shooting star fell into the mines and made them even more dangerous and full of monsters, Brother Hanu here? He decided enough was enough. He rose up, and since then, we've all been fighting Boss Stone off."

"Tick-tock, Brother Hanu, you're so brave~! There's definitely something wrong with this Boss Stone's ticker, if he thinks this is any way to treat people. Is there anything we can do to help?"

But before Brother Hanu could so much as let out an approving Hmph!, a bird came flying in, sounding an alarm. "Croc attack! Croc attack!" In an instant, everyone was on their feet, weapons in hand and running out the door to Nightmareville's defense! It seemed that Boss Stone had made his next move...

3. A GLIMPSE of other things

[ Nearly every evening, Sunday will continue to tell one or two more adventures of Clockie and Friends - and he has a great many to choose from. The cartoon he's drawing from has aired over 10,000 episodes over the many, many years it's existed, not to mention the innumerable movies, plays, comics, and more. Not that Sunday is familiar with even half of them - where would he have found the time? - but he's familiar with more than enough to keep the children entertained for the week of travel.

He is an attentive listener in turn -- and he often finds himself drawn to the pilgrims who play music or sing as they go. Discretely, here and there, he records some of it on his tablet, and when it is his turn to help stir a stew pot or help clean sand out of clogged filters, he often finds himself humming the tunes he's been collecting along the way.


After the sandstorm, he's up early to look for the sand-whales, if any are in range enough for their songs to be heard - and felt? He's really paying attention this time and recording on his tablet, wishing to verify prior suspicions about the psychic component of their calls. But otherwise, unless someone asks him to venture out with them, Sunday tends to stay close to the caravan.


Then comes the day they come into view of the temple - or whatever is projected from it. Sunday, of course, scrambles up the dune with everyone else to see. And there, staring out at that vast and beautiful shattered rainbow sky, he finds himself overwhelmed for a moment by a pang of something like homesickness. It's not that the skies of anywhere he's called home have ever been lit quite like this - even in the Dreamscape, none of the Moments had a sky cast in myriad hues quite like this - but rather the particular vibrancy is in some ways so much like the distortion of the Harmony. And going on two months cut off more thoroughly than even severing his halo could accomplish has been... trying. He does not and will not complain, of course, however much the silence still unsettles him at times, but that doesn't mean it doesn't get to him at times -- like now.

And just as soon as the melancholy wistfulness has settled in, it is, of course, chased by bitter self-reproach. (Everyone else is getting along fine as they are, and so can he. He simply has fewer tools at his disposal - that is all.) He closes his eyes, breathes, and lets it go as best he can. Just another trial to continue to endure and overcome. Hearing stories from pilgrims along the way has already given him more perspectives to think about on what truly drives and more importantly fulfills people, what they chase. Perhaps this temple will give him still more insight.


At the oasis, once he's finished triple checking that the Wayfarers' own water supplies are indeed completely restocked, Sunday stands by the waters edge and watches, desperately torn between the desire to thoroughly clean off all the wretched sand and grime of travel and the desire to keep his markings hidden. He's liable to remain locked in indecision paralysis for some time (though being clean is definitely going to win in the end), unless someone bugs him or, you know... just shoves him in. That is definitely also always an option-- ]

((ooc: 1. I will be out of town from Jan 6th to the 12th, so I'm sorry in advanced for when I vanish for a week!
2. Due to the Lost Pilgrim Buff still in effect, Sunday's still got a fun living tattoo situation going on. The main thing visible usually, due to Sunday's tendency to wear long sleeves, long pants, and gloves even in the heat, is golden tear tracks. But he will take off his gloves and roll up his sleeves to help with anything like food prep or w/e.
3. I'm not kidding about Clockie having a Mickey Mouse voice. Or vibe. You can watch a promotional cartoon featuring Clockie here if you want an idea, or a set of three cute shorts here if you just wanna see the animation. :3
4. Please feel free to wildcard it up! If you've any questions, or want to discuss something, DM or poke me at wildzubat <3 ))

GLIMPSE >> Sand-whale watching

[justamobster]

Ladon is up early, partly because he likes the quiet before the caravan stirs, and partly because he’s got a soft spot for sunrises. Back home, as a nightclub owner, dawn is usually something he hears about secondhand, filtered through thick curtains and late mornings. Out here, though, he gets to watch the sun crest the dunes and spill color across the sky, slow and unbothered. So he takes it as it comes, standing there with a tin cup of black coffee warming his hands.

He doesn’t expect company. When he spots another Wayfarer already there, he gives a small, sheepish huff and lifts the cup in apology.

"Sorry. Woulda brought another cup if I knew someone else was out here enjoyin' the sunrise, yeah?"

does he burn his coffee like he does his food...?

[weekending]

Sunday doesn't much expect company either. He had briefly debated trying to find and wake someone else who might be interested in potential new sandwhale sightings and their accompanying songs, but... it's nice to have some time alone in the quiet, especially after being cooped up by the sandstorm so he'd left that idea behind. Alas, it seems the solitude is not to last, but he cannot really begrudge anyone else the desire to watch the sunrise or see what the morning after a storm brings.

So, though his headwings twitch at the sound of company, Sunday's smile is polite and unbothered as he turns to regard Ladon. His eyes drop to the mug, and he shrugs. The breeze is just the wrong direction for him to be able to smell it, but it looks like coffee? Or something similarly dark.

"Good morning. I appreciate the thought, but don't worry about it. I can always get some caffeine later. The lingering chill is energizing enough for now."

The social conventions of quiet mornings would probably dictate that he turns back to the horizon and the glow creeping over, but Sunday continues to study his new companion a few moments more. He's seen him around, but they've not formally met - but there's something else tickling his brain. Did he have a Copilot post maybe...? It doesn't really matter at the moment - it is just the old habits of keeping tabs on who everyone is die hard.

His coffee is the kind that melts spoons. Pure battery acid.

[justamobster]

Ladon notices the headwings first. At a glance he'd taken them for an intricate hairstyle, right up until they move, and that gets his attention fast. He hasn't seen anyone with wings here yet, which has been both surprising and—if he's honest—a relief. He isn't sure how he'd handle watching someone else take to the air when his own are locked away somewhere he can't reach.

Never mind that he actually could fly here. That's a memory he wishes would breach containment instead of the violet fragments that surface at the worst possible times. Along with his family and his old life, the choice to seal away his trauma took every memory of flight with it.

He doesn't ask about the wings. He's not rude enough, or extroverted enough, and he can't quite picture how flying would even work with just the two perched on someone's head. The image is ridiculous, and it's too early for his sense of humor to wake up fully.

At the mention of the chill, he dips his chin and pulls his wool coat tighter around himself. He prefers the desert once the sun has its say; the nightly cold gets under his skin unless he's tucked into his ship, or lately, his tent. Still, as the dunes slowly warm, he's willing to crawl out of his cocoon. He lets his internal furnace kick up just a notch, confident the faint curl of smoke slipping from his mouth and nose will pass for breath fog in the cool morning air.

"Didn't get t'see mucha these back home," he says, sounding a little more talkative than usual. He still looks rough from the recent brawl—if it even qualifies as one. Blackened eyes, an ugly violet bruise blooming over his nose and forehead. But he feels better for it, and the ache helps keep him anchored. "Figure I gotta enjoy 'em while I can. In case we go somewhere with longer nights, yeah?"

glimpse

[flavourtown]

[ When the Wayfarers are offered the opportunity to crest the dunes to catch the first glimpse of the unknown temple, Jiaoqiu follows at a more sedate pace. Truly, there is no real point to him cresting the dune at all ⸻ he will not be able to see what lays beyond, and he'll just need to make his way back down soon enough to get back to the camp that's setting up ⸻ but he does nonetheless.

Habit, maybe. Not wanting to refuse and seem churlish. Not wanting to stand out.

Still, there is a quiet joy in reaching the top of the dunes and hearing the other Wayfarers gasp or murmur in appreciation. Whatever the sight is, it must be beautiful. Jiaoqiu can only guess at what it might be. A long view of the landscape? A massive temple in the distance? Something else?

He hears a sigh next to him, and he knows that timbre. Sunday.

Jiaoqiu tilts his head, his blindfold slipping down the bridge of his nose a fraction. ]

What is it that has everyone so enamored?

[ He doesn't sound bitter or jealous, merely curious. He made his peace with being blind not long after it had happened, largely, and the negative feelings only tend to crop up when he is reminded of what he can no longer do. Missing out on a beautiful sight? He's not terribly fussed, honestly. ]