WEEK 4

[strangerpeople]

WEEK 4

[After the meeting, Lilac gives everyone a small vial of something red. Those who left the meeting receive it from the rats on the crew. She gives instructions as to how to take it. Take in a drink, preferably tea. Drink it slowly. Make sure you can get to your bed once you finish. The headache will come quickly.

Nevertheless, even as everyone slips into sleep, they are visited once more by the Conductor in what must have been a dream. Or was it? It's not clear.

She is quiet as she speaks, looking out the windows, even though the view is obscured by the glass.

"I know you think me as a monster. Maybe I am after all these years. I have no illusions. But I cannot regret the things I've done.

"Nor can I regret the Bazaar...it was so wonderful. It opened my eyes to the truth of things and opened doors I never could have seen on my own. It was the first time I felt true love for another. I wasn't the only one-my daughter, too, passed through the Wicket. Saw the sea more sunless within the Bazaar's body. Learned as I learned. She sought to rival me in symbols, in marking skin."

She closes her eyes.

"She is dead now, of course. Everyone I knew in the Neath-on our Earth-is. Well. Almost everyone. London endures, naturally. But the Echo Bazaar...it's beautiful promise...it's gone. The Seventh City will never fall, and it's Message will forever remain undelivered. Of all the creatures in the universe who might remember it, I am alone in honoring it.

"Perhaps it's noble. Perhaps it's foolish. In any case, maybe it doesn't matter. Maybe it's the thought that's important. As long as I am here, there is yet a possibility that the deed may be finished, somehow.

"Still, I wonder. Maybe you have the answer.

What happens to a Message, when neither the sender and receiver exist anymore?"




As the day dawns, everyone wakes up to the sound of howling winds and darkness. Their head hurts, but they do have a new memory to accompany the ache. They are also at a new port. It is a dark place, teetering on the edge of safe space and the unknown in between void, where those who enter rarely return. Or, so you have to assume, right? Either way, that blackness on the deep horizon doesn't look particularly fun to try to drive through.

There is a legitimate fear in Lilac's expression that betrays her for the first time, as she lets everyone disembark, including the unicorn and the young man, who quickly jump onto another train to get away from this place. She also refuses to leave the train. She does leave you with a fair warning.

The Synod of Carcels is dangerous, in its own way, and everyone can feel it. Everyone can feel something hanging in the air. It's not natural. It's bending reality. It's also not something that started with you or your arrival. Yet it threatens to become that way, to become part of you. You can feel the temptation gnaw at you. You can hear the winds whisper of it. There is a hunger here-and knowledge as well.

The question, of course, is whether the price to uncover those things is worth it-and what will be found here with the price that is paid. But as the Conductor said-a reckoning cannot be postponed. Not forever.


There are eleven strangers left in this place.]

((IMPORTANT OOC NOTE: This week and it's investigations involve major Fallen London spoilers, in particular spoilers regarding Seeking Mr. Eaten's Name and one of it's endings. If you, as a player here, are playing Fallen London and do not wish to be spoiled, let us know, and we will make sure you are not given any ending spoilers to the best of our ability. We will also be marking spoiler-filled comments with tags, and we request that our players do likewise, in consideration for those who might look through this post in the future.

With that said, have fun, and remember-all shall be well.))

Comments

[charmingheroine]

It's not an actual star, it's something - it's green, for one, and its focused light drives people insane before turning them into glass or crystal. I haven't touched any of the pieces left, so... I'm not sure which. Again, she will know what I mean, if she's there with you.

[icanhearscreams]

Yeah - wait, did you say Dracula? You don’t know Eric Lecarde, do you?

[charmingheroine]

I - what? Yes, I do, why?

[She knows him more closely than she knows at the moment, even... a certain ghost's true identity is still missing from her memories.]

He was - or is, I hope - my best friend's father's best friend. They stopped a revival of Dracula in 1917, at Whitby; the last anyone heard of Mister Lecarde was a few years ago, he'd left Spain with his daughters and then they just... vanished, pretty much.

[icanhearscreams]

... He was with us. He killed, and got away with it. He went insane, pretty much... I thought he was a good guy, but then he went and did that and got someone else killed for it. I don't know if he had any kids, but...

[charmingheroine]

[That sounds nothing like the man from Uncle John's stories. Sure, he was volatile, always the louder of the pair of them, single-mindedly devoted to avenging his fiancee to a degree that spoke to some sort of imbalance somewhere, but....]

I - what? No, there must be some mistake, he was... we're taught to die ourselves before ever doing that, I...

[How would a local have gotten that name, unless they dragged it out of - her partner somehow, or one of her parents, or maybe even Vincent?]

Tell me, how old was he? What did he look like?

[She only has the roughest idea, really, but....]

[icanhearscreams]

Mid-twenties. Kind of tall, pretty skinny, long blond hair. Kind of a narrow face, pretty feminine-looking. He had some kind of dumb cape thing, too.

[charmingheroine]

I - mid-twenties, he'd have been - that can't just be a coincidence, but...

[That's the photograph on John Morris's desk, or half of it, a man with hair she'd always envied leaning shoulder-to-shoulder with the one who told her stories about him. Even the "dumb cape thing". She feels faint.]

There has to be a reason. He wouldn't have - he couldn't have just killed someone for no reason....

[icanhearscreams]

He was going insane, like I said. He started playing along with our captors... I think the incentive was protecting someone from harm. ... John Morris, that's right.

[The edges of his form start going... a little strange...]

[charmingheroine]

[She takes a step backwards. Being essentially blind to what, precisely, is talking to her is not helpful right now. Whether he means good or evil, that shifting can't mean anything good will happen if she stays in close range.

She's been trusting. She's been panicked. She's realizing, belatedly, that those are two things she should never, ever let herself be.]

I didn't mention that name. God, what - what kind of world are you from, that he'd go that far?!

[icanhearscreams]

From a previous round of this murder shit, will you listen for once?!

[He stamps his foot, though it doesn't make any noise.]

I'm not making it up. This whole thing's stupid. I'm a ghost and ghosts shouldn't exist! Why the hell would I make this up? Like I said, we were all losing it. That place was literally making us go insane and hallucinate!

[There's some sort of white substance crumbling from his legs - and the legs are fading.]

[charmingheroine]

This place is doing its damnedest to do the same thing, and we've got some hag who hides her everything hurrying us along, too! Look, if he failed - aside from dying, how can any of us fight it and stay sane?!

[Whatever's happening to his legs - she's ignoring that. She's got far less information out of this than she'd hoped to, so far, but if she can get one useful answer....]

[icanhearscreams]

Are you seeing people as other people?

[charmingheroine]

No.

[She frowns, stubborn more than petulant.]

So if that starts happening I know I'm too far gone?

[icanhearscreams]

Pretty much. Hallucinating means you're close to too far gone.

[charmingheroine]

I'll try to pass that on to everyone. Don't know if they'll listen, but it's worth a shot... thank you.

[icanhearscreams]

Yeah. Be careful.

[His whole body turns to that white substance - and then crumbles into a pile.]