You have spent the last few days on Thesa Station, taking in the knowledge that your world is no more. Perhaps you've made some friends (or maybe an enemy or two). Either way, you aren't expected to spend all of your time on the Station. El Nysa needs you, after all, and you promised you'd help the planet thrive. Are you ready?
Submit an AC-eligible thread with a new character as a participant for 2 OLYMPIA REP POINTS OR 2 WYVER REP POINTS, respectively, HERE or HERE. THESA STATION
All refugees on the station are called to the hangar where a large-scale teleporter has been set up; everyone will be sent to the planet together. Simply step onto the space between the arrays and wait. Before they depart, all new refugees will be given a starter kit!
 You may have heard about earlier technical difficulties, but don't worry. I promise everything is in perfect working order this time. I'd say I tested it myself, but since that's not exactly possible, you'll just have to trust me! (Please.)
The older refugees will also be there to guide you to ensure no one is left confused... or behind. Make sure you wait for them — I've been detecting something odd so I'll be having them meet you at the landing site. Good luck, refugees! Not that you'll be needing it or anything...
The arrays begin to hum and glow, quickly building into a brilliant wash of light. It creates a column that travels all the way from Thesa Station to the surface of El Nysa. With the night sky as a canvas, the beam can be seen all the way from Olympia and Wyver — a view that has the natives whispering of blessings.
As a sudden but beautiful aurora splays across the sky, the refugees down on the planet receive a message asking them to travel to the landing site — and warning them to prepare for what may come of the strange readings Zasere's gotten from the teleport itself.
Traveling through the light leaves the impression of blinding starlight, a strange sense of weightlessness, and a disorienting moment of total sensory deprivation. The radiance of your teleport hangs bright in the sky above you, a shimmering aurora that reflects off the calm waters below, visible for miles all around.
You've landed on a peninsula to the east of the South Outpost. There's little here — scattered trees on spring-barren plains, with a few overgrown, dilapidated structures poking out of the brush. All is quiet save for the keening of animals and the gentle lapping of waves against the shore. This lonely desolation is hardly the bustling cities and vibrant cultures you were promised back on the station...
BY CAMPFIRE'S GLOW. But waiting for you is a group of your predecessors, and with them, a veritable tent city, with portable stoves, coolers of food and drink, comfortable bedrolls, and cheerful rings of bonfires — all that you need to make merry of the night, courtesy of Overseer Voss, who has, thanks to his interest in blessed meteorological phenomena and refugees, decided to make a holy expedition of the affair.
Settle in, meet new comrades, and enjoy yourself, for you've safely completed your journey. But don't wander too far from the fires — the dark is closing in, and there's a strange, electric feeling in the air, the scent of ozone drifting on the breeze. And what were those odd readings Zasere mentioned?
A SHEPHERD OVER THE FLOCK. The spring sun dawns on a grey morning, already burning away the fog rolling in off the sea. It quickly becomes apparent that Voss and his entourage of acolytes have been up for hours, hard at work. They've set up a brightly-draped stage and a travel pulpit, magically enchanted to amplify his voice, and as the sun breaks over the horizon, Voss is all set to do what he does best: proselytize.
 As our Goddess has sent Her blessing once before to herald the coming of those touched by Her light, so She has done once again! Here you see them, those surrounded by the light of our Goddess, each of them bearing the mark upon their skin of Her holiest of hands! Do you not see? Do none among you bear witness to the righteousness of Her message? Perhaps this is why our people have shamed themselves in front of our Goddess—
[ He continues for another 15 minutes... ]
Nevertheless. See you them before us now! See them as they are, coming to our gates with Her reminder, that these people must be treated with the utmost respect and care. Thesa's divinity is not to be treated with such flagrant disregard! Those who She chooses are not ours to use as mindless fodder, to hurt, to torture — shame upon those who allowed such deeds to shame us under Her watchful gaze!
To those of you who have just arrived here on our doorstep, be not afraid! The Temples of Thesa welcome you to our home with hearts and minds open! Should you ever find yourself in need of solace, seek out the Temples, as there are no greater allies to you than those of us within the Temple walls. You are welcome all to Olympia!
As he steps away from the enchanted podium, he can be heard saying aside to an acolyte, "How was that? Heavy on the shame, but I think it went well!" While he will not leave the area immediately, his acolytes will politely turn away attempts to speak with him and remind anyone interested that they can leave a message at the Temples.
Despite going off without hitch, the new refugees' arrival isn't entirely without incident. It seems that the "blessed" beam of light that brought the refugees down to El Nysa brought something else along with it — a sliver of the Storm. At least the beam was short enough that only a small fraction managed to squeeze through.
But it's enough to wreak a little havoc around the landing site and along the road back toward Olympia and Wyver — and even, for a few days, in the cities themselves.
THE TRUTH IS OUT THERE. The Storm is an undeniably destructive force, and that's proven with this small sliver's effect as it ripples across the continent. While there's no visible sign of its presence, strange phenomena soon begin to appear, corresponding with Zasere's odd readings.
They're innocuous little things at first. A sudden silence, animals going quiet, insects stilling. All technology, no matter how advanced, ceases working. You discover when you check with a friend, the clock on your phone is twelve minutes slow even though you'd swear only a minute had passed — time missing. Walking through the woods takes longer than it should when brushing past one bush leads to brushing past that same bush again — and again, and again, the area looping on itself. It keeps you trapped, going in circles for minutes, even hours, before finally releasing you in a random direction.
Or perhaps you'll feel a sense of deja vu, like you've walked down this road, taken this turn, seen that bird fly from this branch before. This is the second time that cat has crossed your path. The person you're meeting, you already know their name; you're certain you've already met.
WE GOT COWS. The Storm sliver also ushers in sudden, localized weather anomalies — heavy storms, blizzards, strong winds, and more. Affected areas range from just a few feet wide to nearly half a mile. One minute, the sky may be sunny and clear, but the next dark storm clouds roll in, unleashing torrential rain. Small tornadoes surge along the road, kicking up winds strong enough to knock people over and carry objects away. Hail hurtles down from the sky, but only in a ten foot radius. Temperatures fluctuate wildly between one extreme and the next, from heat waves to cold snaps. Soupy fog blankets the area, thick enough that you can barely see your hand in front of your face. Good luck finding your way!
FORGETTING IS SO LONG. The visions come on suddenly and with very little warning. One second, you're carrying on as normal — but the next, you blink and find yourself (and anyone near you) somewhere else completely. You may recognize this place as a moment from the past, one that you lived through. It's a memory, your memory, and it now replays around you in exceptional detail, unnervingly lifelike. Or you may not recognize it at all. It might belong to the person next to you, or to someone else entirely — a memory that the Storm has swallowed up.
Either way, the scene plays out just as it once did, and there's nothing you can do to stop it — or escape it. The memory surrounds you to no end: every door you open leads nowhere, every hallway you turn down continues on forever, every horizon you flee toward hangs just out of reach. And linger too long or turn the wrong corner, and you may find yourself abruptly stuck in a completely different memory. It's almost tempting, then, to give up, to let the past sweep you away...
But this isn't the full might of the Storm. Look closely, and you can see that in the walls of this trap, there are minute, hairline cracks, a facade of fractured glass. Imperfections in the memory where the real world is breaking through. It seems the only way to escape these memories is to find those cracks and break through them — by force, by will, or by some other method entirely.
The time is coming to make a choice — perhaps not a permanent choice, but unless you want to spend the rest of your nights out under the stars, you'll need to pick which city you will initially spend your time in. On the horizon, you will see that people have arrived to help you make that decision...
A FORK IN THE ROAD. Refugees and the hyper-religious wishing to hear Voss speak are not the only ones out and about under the light of the aurora. Citizens of both Olympia and Wyver have flocked to a point on the road midway between the cities and where the refugees have appeared, and they all have the same goal in mind: convincing the newcomers who have just descended in the blessed light of Thesa to come to their city and not the other.
They've come with bribes — that is, examples of what their cities have to offer. If you spent much time at the exhibition up on Thesa Station, you might recognize some of what's being shown off, though the offerings here are markedly more tangible, and shown off by hawkers wearing substantially fewer clothes.
A herd of pegasi accompanies the Olympians, while a line of flying serpents is stabled at a tent bearing Wyver colors. Refugees are given the chance to experience solo flights and are told that if they prove their loyalty, they may have the privilege of owning such fine beasts one day themselves. The Olympians have also brought couture clothing, jewelry, and makeup to offer a taste of Olympian splendor, while the Wyver delegation has brought along fine weapons, sense-enhancing jungle plants, and small vials of diluted dragon’s blood (drinking confers a temporary boost in strength) to demonstrate their might. The Olympians speak proudly of the glory of the Temples of Thesa; the Wyverns speak of the Volkkran Pact and inform newcomers that they can make a pilgrimage to the summit of Namarak Mountain at the next full moon.
This is as good a time as any to compare your plans with others around you and exchange contact information before going your separate ways with people who are going to the city you are not. When you’re ready to go, don’t worry about safe passage — the natives of each city will gladly escort you there in luxury.
OF WHITE AND GOLD. The people of Olympia are ecstatic that you’ve come to join them... So much so that they’ve prepared a grand tour of the city for the new arrivals. You will be introduced to the major businesses in the city, including businesses that they are proud to point out were founded by refugees.
Refugees who have been here for some time already are encouraged to pair up with newcomers to introduce them to the parts of the city they like best. To facilitate this, they’ve made arrangements with many of the business owners: new refugees who visit their shops (and older refugees who escort them) are given discounts!
Just a few examples of many: the Wyvernest offers free desserts to first time visitors with the purchase of a drink, refugees who visit the Silk Wyrms can have one custom (though not exceedingly expensive) outfit made for them for free, and visitors to Shades Darker are offered a half-hour session with one of the prostitutes at half price… or access to a private room, if they seem to have taken a shine to one of their companions on the tour.
Lastly, tour guides will point out that over the course of the next week, the train to Flona Cove will allow new refugees to board for free so that they can experience the seaside for themselves. With the weather finally starting to warm, this is as good a time as any for a visit to the beach, isn’t it?
OF RED AND BLACK. Life in Wyver is typically a sink-or-swim sort of experience — but in light of the valor recently displayed by their predecessors, the natives are now more willing to assist in getting newcomers settled. The entire journey here they have been talking up the virtues of their city… and now is the time to show everything that's on offer.
The well-known businesses in the city are prepared for the influx of newcomers. Some are giving out discounted samples of their products while others are offering a more hands-on experience: in exchange for working a few hours, they will give training in whatever task is being performed.
At the Forged, newcomers can learn the basics of crafting simple weapons (and take one of their successes home), while visitors to spas near the lagoons are trained in the art of massage. Those who wander to Falmi’s Ring can learn the art of pugilism or how to keep (and fix) books if they're more inclined to the gambling that goes on. Newcomers interested in Wyver's dragons can get hands-on experience at the Fields of the Exalted's nursery. While they walk from place to place, a guide may point out a job posting from Highwind Hires, noting that refugees can make a name for themselves outside official channels.
The last stop on the tour is the Undergrowth. The guides speak of the jungle in reverent tones and caution new refugees not to wander too far in. They warn never to explore alone, but also urge refugees to take time to familiarize themselves with it; after all, the jungle is an important part of life in Wyver, and those who are going to be living here should understand it as well as they do.
You've chosen your path, refugee, but that doesn't necessarily make it a permanent one. Watch out for the strange effects of the Storm, which linger still in the two cities and everywhere in between for the next few days before dissipating just as mysteriously as they came, but otherwise enjoy the welcome and make yourself at home — after all, this is home now.
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no subject
She has that effect. Breathe, it'll ease off.
[While he looks for an obvious exit. And there is and obvious exit, right past her.]
I could bring you somewhere in dreams, maybe. But I know when I'm dreaming and this is not my idea of a sweet one. Lets... let's go somewhere else, at least. Not here.
[With a gesture rather than risking the suggestion out loud, he indicates the apartment door.]
no subject
[Perhaps it's awkward to flirt, given his predicament, but that's simply his default state. Especially to deter from uncomfortable matters. He keeps a tight grip on Prior's hand and walks quickly for the door, hoping whatever is beyond it doesn't directly correlate with what he's desperately trying not to think of.
For a moment, it nearly seems that way. They enter into a wide hallway of what someone modern might think is a historical estate, but someone like Dorian knows to be like home. Torches line the walls, illuminating ornate decor, tapestries hanging overhead, and several guardsmen in plated armor posted at the doors. But some of those guardsmen look particularly annoyed, and others are red in the face—down the hall, two men are easing each other off. One of the voices, swearing at the time, is unmistakably Dorian's.
Dorian's reaction is disproportionate to the situation, though it might not seem it given the circumstances. He blanches, draws in on himself, looking every which way like he's looking for an unguarded exit.] We need to go.
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It would almost be possible to miss the distant voices in favor of playing A Manhattan WASP in King Arthur's Court but that's Dorian he can hear, and unless the Dorian beside him has an as yet unremarked on talent for throwing his voice, that makes two of them.
Plus, one of them sounds pissed.]
Why, am I underdressed? [Not a single guard has turned to look at them. It seems safe to say there's no dress code in place for guests from other planes. Prior's more interested in the aborted fight, but that interest shifts as soon as he picks up on Dorian's response.] What's going on?
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[He doesn't want to see this, either, but Prior has much more delicate sensibilities than he for what he knows is coming. He looks down both ends of the hall, brows furrowed like the apparent direction to take isn't obvious—after all, this is not the perspective he was in back then. From the room the second Dorian is in, two men's voices come to laugh, and the distinct sound of a bed creaking follows them.
Dorian is not pissed, not truly, not yet. He's complaining to his company in a way he doesn't mean, voice slurred and labored, but in a way that's intentional. It would probably raise more questions if footsteps coming from behind the pair in present didn't already drown them out, and the Dorian alongside him didn't start swearing himself.
He tugs Prior to the side of the hall before a group of assailants, armed with weapons but lacking the armor of an honorable guard, can trample them. The men finally move from their stations, perplexed by their presence, but calling for them to stop too slowly. One's armor is pierced by a mercenary's daggers before another word can pass his lips, and the next takes one to the neck. They collapse, and Dorian places a hand at Prior's jaw to turn his head away from the violence.]
It'll be over soon.
no subject
With two hands wrapping Dorian's forearm he pulls that protective shield down and watches the hack-and-slash progress down the hall, bile rising sharp and acrid in his stomach.]
What are they-
[And a fresh fear chases the other out of his voice.]
Are they coming for you?
[Curse the fact he's still un-crippled for the moment. With one blank look of shock at the Dorian he's with, Prior starts running done the hall toward the other.]
no subject
For all the racket that murder makes, clanging metal and the collapse of armored bodies, the targeted men are too wrapped up in one another to hear the death outside their door. The thugs fell another two guardsmen in the hall, and others go on ahead to take care of those that would come running, leaving bloody footprints on polished tile. The Dorian within, only six years younger than the man giving chase to Prior, only notices when the door is all but burst open. He freezes from lying atop another young man, both so stricken with fear they don't part from one another until it's too late.
He tries to put up a fight, scrambling out of bed and to the floor in attempt to grab his discarded staff, but his hands are intercepted by one of the thugs. His gentlemen caller shrinks back into the bed, shouting for the guards that aren't coming. He, just like the visitors, is helpless to do anything as they subdue his guest. Dorian puts up a fight, kicking and shouting, but there's little he can do when they've caught him so vulnerable. Blood smears against naked skin as they twist his arms behind his back, his voice descending from fury into panic.
"Stop! Get your filthy hands off of me, don't you know who I am— Is that blood?! What've you done—"
It's then that the real one grabs a fistful of Prior's shirt to drag him back from the scene. He'd be in the way—they aren't killing the boy, they're just taking him. One drags him out into the hall as another grabs his clothes from the floor.]
no subject
Finally Prior settles, pressing back against Dorian as figures move past them and the last of the memory unfolds. It's the vulnerability, not Dorian's nakedness or the position he was caught in, that make it such a strangely intimate thing to see. Prior suddenly finds himself feeling intrusive rather than just being caught in the violence and fear - finally he can look away. He turns back to Dorian, the one who must have survived this just by virtue of being here.]
Do they hurt you? [It's one thing he's not sure he can watch.] ...Or him?
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[Dorian is understandably sullen. It's perhaps one of the lowest points in his life, and as much as he likes Prior, there are just some things you don't want people see with their own eyes. Pride and self preservation are ingrained far too deep into his identity not to be paranoid that it'll be used as evidence that he's a weak little thing, incapable of holding his own.
His gaze is distant, not entirely there - his thoughts are one the boy whose shouting echoes down the hall until he's out of earshot.]
I suspect they would have, if they weren't paid so handsomely not to harm me, but... no. They didn't. They just took me home.
no subject
It earns Dorian a sharp look back, even with so much going on elsewhere. Weakness isn't something he's even considered. If Dorian's time is one where an unarmed man's supposed to be able to defend himself against greater numbers with no warning then it's got higher expectations than Prior has. That didn't look weak, it looked desperate, horrifying and there's one other part to it that Prior can't begin to fathom.]
You never found out what happened to him? [It just leaves a stronger impulse to follow those cries down the hall.] Wasn't there anyone to ask?
[Cogs click slowly into place.]
And these are... they were sent by your family?
no subject
[It's funny, he says, but he can't bring himself to crack a smile. He can't bring himself to look at Prior. He casts a glance back to the mess left behind, blood seeping into the lines between tile, and he thinks to himself that must have been a terrible inconvenience to get out. He was a terrible inconvenience to get out, maybe it wouldn't have turned out this way if he'd made better choices—
He takes a breath, pulling himself from his woolgathering so he can take Prior's hand and start down the hall. There's a door at the end of it, away from the distant, dying commotion.]
I didn't find out because I was on a boat, then I was stuck at home for a rather long time. He wouldn't speak of it. Not civilly.
no subject
He lets Dorian take his hand, distracted as he's lead down the hall.]
I was arrested for public indecency, once. Hit on a police officer in a public bathroom when I was too young to know what a trap looked like. I thought that was scandalous. The scandal's that anyone gives a shit who you're fucking, you get that, right? They killed people for this.
[Get him through that door before he takes it upon himself to go back and lecture unresponding figments.
It opens out onto the top of a stairwell in an airy New England home. Dorian won't recognise that it's showhome ready, a place that looks lived in less than it looks expensive: no grand turreted castle, but clearly something its own brand of refined.
Halfway down sits a little boy in smart pants and shirt, with a waistcoat. A miniature suit jacket made for someone who can't be more than eight years old is dropped in a little heap beside him, and a woman's handbag with a stuffed bear tucked into it on top of that. There's a flower clip tucked into his longish, page boy cut hair.
A couple stand in front of the open door at the end of the hall, dressed in '50s finery. An argument that started in low tones is now becoming raised. If you really think I'm introducing you and that to the head of the company you must have your head screwed on more backward than usual.]
no subject
[Dorian trails off, taking in their new surroundings as a welcome distraction from what just transpired. Refined, but not lavish in a way he knows - like Prior's apartment, he isn't quite sure what to make of it. The latter was less than he expected, and this is much more.
However, his reaction to the boy is immediate. He smiles faintly, wasting little time in starting down the steps to get a better look at him. He's about to start into some comment about how he didn't think he could get more adorable, light and teasing, something they need after something so gruesome—
He stops a step short of him when and that is uttered. His expression hardens.]
Your parents, I presume.
no subject
But while the colors are still bright, the arguments meld together. Self preservation or simply distance from the fact. Prior looks on with resignation but no specific familiarity. He doesn't flinch from the descriptor. Neither does the boy on the stairs - they've forgotten that he's there, why remind them.
It's soon clear they're both looking to get Prior out of their hair. His mother tries saying she can't keep him for the day, she has errands to run.
Finally, Prior nods to Dorian's question and follows him down to sit beside himself on the stairs.]
Mother's days were non-stop errands. One has to buy one's liquor from multiple stores to avoid looking like a lush.
[Well whose fault is it he's turning out this way, Evelyn? It doesn't come from me, and I'm not about to take it on now.
It's a sign of a well-made door, how soundly it slams. Prior's mother stands in the hallway for a long moment, staring at it, then wanders into another room without looking for her son. A minute later she can be heard on the phone, telling the maid she doesn't care if it's a day off, she'll have to come in.]
no subject
There's enough of them that they could form a little club, if it weren't for the fact it would feel like a group therapy session. For all the different places in the universe they come from, things are sickeningly similar.
He takes a breath, stooping to take up the teddy bear before he sits down on the other side of child Prior. He smooths his thumb over the faux fur, looking a bit longing - he wishes he could hand it over, offer some words of comfort.]
You were a little delight. Look at you, a rising star. [A beat. Well, since the kid can't hear them:] Fuck them.
no subject
Behind him, Prior smiles.] Father left not long after this - for the best, I think, though I blamed myself for a long time. Mother... well, I'm fond of her, as one is of far off, unreachable things. A bird in a tree. The moon. I still have the bear.
[It's in an apartment in a New York swept up by the storm.]
Well, had.
[Strangely enough, parents like these taught Prior one of his favorite lessons. Maybe it's left him with low expectations, too, but he appreciates the good in flawed people more easily for having been raised like this.
But first we'll simply have to change those clothes! In a sudden flurry, eight-year-old Prior grabs the bear and darts back up the stairs.
Prior reaches for Dorian's hand, again.]
Want to see where the door goes?
no subject
[Dorian laces his fingers with Prior's easily enough, but he doesn't yet look back at him. He continues watching the stairs even after the boy's long gone, then looks up to the ceiling. He muses to cover his apparent reluctance.]
We could just wander about. You have electricity, and all the little things that come with it, and it seems to me that would be a waste to give up... and I could critique their wardrobes. See your nannies fret over your adventures.
[But he doesn't have the strength to prattle on forever. He heaves a sigh, turning his head back to Prior with a strained smile.]
I don't want you to think differently of me. Whatever's beyond it might make that so.
no subject
[And there's part of Prior that could stay here, in his childhood home. For all that memories of it aren't the happiest - he escaped as soon as he could, even his mother sold up in favor of an apartment on the Upper West Side - this world is still something Prior misses. Everything's so clean and bright here. And god, the sixties are just dawning. The world outside's starting to change its skin, shed the old one for something better.
They could stay. In theory, at least. Reality's all too likely to make its own opinion heard on the matter soon enough, but before it's able, Prior reaches out to splay his fingers under Dorian's chin - tilting it up and turning his head one side then the other under an examining gaze.]
Whatever it is, it's something that made you. I can't think too badly of it for that. But if you'd like, we can open the door and hope it just leads to the garden gate and the malt shop at the end of the street.
no subject
[He can't remain serious forever, especially with his head being turned like that whilst hearing words like those in full view of Prior's kind face. He comes to smile, lifting his hand to take Prior's by the wrist and press his lips to the back of his hand before he rises to his feet. He outstretches his free arm in an "after you" gesture before he starts down himself, keeping his chin up and sparing a few reassured glances his way. If he has a positive attitude, he won't think about his father's exit. If he doesn't think about Prior's father, he won't think about his own father. Surely he can conjure up someplace similar, happier —
But when they step through the door, the wide and empty home is yet again replaced with the rustic, positively medieval south. A tavern, but lacking any warm bodies to make it an outing, and his blood running cold the second he steps through the threshold. There is no double Dorian to greet them — similar to Prior's first experience, Dorian is himself within the moment, speaking the words he used when he first entered the place.]
The place is deserted? Is this normal, or —?
[But when prompted to turn back towards his companion with accusations, he looks back towards Prior.]
I'd rather you never have seen our resemblance. Dreadful thing.
no subject
After their last walk in this world, neither is it surprising to hear him say it in that tone. There's a real lack of love lost here - or the reverse - something bittered by past experiences. Prior plays it like he's less wary than he is: what happens now, after the bloodshed of the last memory? Splaying his hands against the sticky wood grain surface of one of the tables, he does his best to look far more casual than he feels.]
Oh, you're not that alike. His face is rounder, you got the cheekbones from another branch of the family tree. I doubt he wears the magical s&m look even half as well.
no subject
[When the man speaks up again, addressing the figure behind him, Dorian raises his voice a bit high in effort to talk over him. He doesn’t want to hear this, but he can’t find it in himself to move, to look away. Instead he clears his throat, the dialogue continuing without him participating. A disastified sigh, followed with This is how it has always been...
Nothing happens here. This is simply the last time I spoke with him before he was assassinated. His face is a bit round, but it wasn’t always... I suspect he took on a bit more weight after I absolutely ripped our family name to pieces.