piper90npcs (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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goneawayworld2020-12-01 08:29 pm
piper90npcs) wrote in goneawayworld2020-12-01 08:29 pm
HERE, HAVE SOME SPIRIT
Who: Three Ghosts and the little New Hires
What: Sharing the Christmas Spirit
Where: Good question
When: Post-Rose Tattoo
Warnings/Notes: Possible violence, angst, likely visions of death.
Are you sleeping?
Maybe. Maybe not. It's hard to tell. This could be another ARE, after all. What you can tell is that the halls are filled with mist, the smell of pine, and the sound of jingling bells off in the distance.
And then comes the wailing.
Tearing past you, screaming like a damned soul, skeletal figures flood through the halls. Some of them wear business suits, weighed down by chains crafted from ledgers and money boxes. Some of them are soldiers, bound by their own twisted weapons. Police, politicians, no one seems spared. Someone whispers, warning you, begging you to pay heed. For you will be visited by three ghosts who are on an errand of great import.
And then something charges with a howl and all goes white. Slowly, the light dims, and the mass of spectral entities is gone. Instead there stands a figure, or maybe two or three of them. For each person, it's different, as they'll have different messages and purposes for each.
One is neither male nor female, the only certain features being a well-muscled, well proportioned body, wearing a white tunic and a beautiful belt of pearl. Its hair is long, white, as if ancient, but no matter how its face changes, there's no sign of age upon it. There seems to be an aura of white flame around its head and, in a voice that belies nothing but charitable warmth, introduces itself as the Ghost of Christmas Past. It will show scenes of someone's past, offering enlightening details with little judgment.
The middle one is a large man on a veritable throne of food, tantalizing and delicious, wearing a fur-lined red robe and a crown of holly upon his head. The Ghost of Christmas Present is a big man, with brown hair, and a booming, jovial voice that can turn blisteringly harsh and back in a single sentence. He'll show what the character was doing immediately prior to their arrival upon the rig. Perhaps what they're doing right now. But he'll also be content to walk either the character's home world or this Gone Away World, viewing the sights and people enjoying Christmas with the character.
And the final one, a phantom in a dark, green robe, green smoke billowing around it. Its skin is pale, pulled gauntly around whatever body part it exposes. The gaze underneath the hood is as cold as the grave, and it would be wise not to try to match that for too long. It remains utterly silent, simply guiding its guest through the Christmases Yet To Come with a pointed finger. It will show how a character dies and how they'll be remembered by others after. It acts cold and merciless, but this very visit is a mission of mercy, one it silently prays will succeed.
The surprise, though, is that they aren't showing the character that history. Instead, they'll be guiding their guest through someone else's life. Maybe just a fraction of it, maybe a full span. But when it's all over, it's as if no time has passed. In fact, no. The characters are returned to an hour before the ghosts visited them.
[[Remember, this isn't your typical memshare. The ghosts are NPCs, but they'll be controlled by the players. They will not show characters their own histories, presents, or futures, only those of different people. They can show the same scenes to different people or different scenes to different people. One person might not even see all three of the Ghosts.]]
What: Sharing the Christmas Spirit
Where: Good question
When: Post-Rose Tattoo
Warnings/Notes: Possible violence, angst, likely visions of death.
Are you sleeping?
Maybe. Maybe not. It's hard to tell. This could be another ARE, after all. What you can tell is that the halls are filled with mist, the smell of pine, and the sound of jingling bells off in the distance.
And then comes the wailing.
Tearing past you, screaming like a damned soul, skeletal figures flood through the halls. Some of them wear business suits, weighed down by chains crafted from ledgers and money boxes. Some of them are soldiers, bound by their own twisted weapons. Police, politicians, no one seems spared. Someone whispers, warning you, begging you to pay heed. For you will be visited by three ghosts who are on an errand of great import.
And then something charges with a howl and all goes white. Slowly, the light dims, and the mass of spectral entities is gone. Instead there stands a figure, or maybe two or three of them. For each person, it's different, as they'll have different messages and purposes for each.
One is neither male nor female, the only certain features being a well-muscled, well proportioned body, wearing a white tunic and a beautiful belt of pearl. Its hair is long, white, as if ancient, but no matter how its face changes, there's no sign of age upon it. There seems to be an aura of white flame around its head and, in a voice that belies nothing but charitable warmth, introduces itself as the Ghost of Christmas Past. It will show scenes of someone's past, offering enlightening details with little judgment.
The middle one is a large man on a veritable throne of food, tantalizing and delicious, wearing a fur-lined red robe and a crown of holly upon his head. The Ghost of Christmas Present is a big man, with brown hair, and a booming, jovial voice that can turn blisteringly harsh and back in a single sentence. He'll show what the character was doing immediately prior to their arrival upon the rig. Perhaps what they're doing right now. But he'll also be content to walk either the character's home world or this Gone Away World, viewing the sights and people enjoying Christmas with the character.
And the final one, a phantom in a dark, green robe, green smoke billowing around it. Its skin is pale, pulled gauntly around whatever body part it exposes. The gaze underneath the hood is as cold as the grave, and it would be wise not to try to match that for too long. It remains utterly silent, simply guiding its guest through the Christmases Yet To Come with a pointed finger. It will show how a character dies and how they'll be remembered by others after. It acts cold and merciless, but this very visit is a mission of mercy, one it silently prays will succeed.
The surprise, though, is that they aren't showing the character that history. Instead, they'll be guiding their guest through someone else's life. Maybe just a fraction of it, maybe a full span. But when it's all over, it's as if no time has passed. In fact, no. The characters are returned to an hour before the ghosts visited them.
[[Remember, this isn't your typical memshare. The ghosts are NPCs, but they'll be controlled by the players. They will not show characters their own histories, presents, or futures, only those of different people. They can show the same scenes to different people or different scenes to different people. One person might not even see all three of the Ghosts.]]
YET TO COME
"What," the female finally says. It doesn't really sound like a question, but the male answers as though it is:
"This feels weird. Kinda wrong." The female rolls over so she can look up at him, frown lines appearing between her eyebrows.
"That she's dead?"
"What he's doing to her body, I mean."
no subject
When they come upon the hut it's almost cozy in comparison to the specter's presence and he moves closer to it more on instinct than instruction, only giving his guide a quick glance back over his shoulder before getting cautiously close enough to overhear the two in the entranceway.
Concern and confusion over the conversation quickly turns to alarm at the mention of doing something to a dead body.
"The hell-?" Alarmed, he looks back to the spectator again as if expecting them to finally choose now to speak up and give him an explanation.
(cw: desecration of a body)
"--This sounds like a raised-by-humans thing," the girl is saying, getting an exasperated scoff from her partner.
"It's not a raised-by-humans thing," he protests. "It's basically desecration--"
"It's not," she interrupts. "Stacia-rhya was very clear about what she wanted done with her body when she died." Her voice takes on an almost sing-song cadence, like she's repeating something from memory. "Use my body for a frame-up job. I'm a pretty white chick, the media will go nuts."
"Yes, I remember, but she was shooting whiskey when she said that."
"She repeated it sober, when I asked." The girl stretches her legs out. "And she explained Missing White Woman Syndrome when I asked for further clarification. It seems sound to me. How can it be desecration of a body when it's exactly what she asked for?"
no subject
At the argument over whether or not the guy's reluctance with the plan was a 'raised by humans thing,' he perks an eyebrow, but before he can think too much into that, a familiar name pops up in the conversation.
"Stacia!? As in our Stacia?" He doesn't even bother to wait for another silent gesture to just keep listening, from the rest of what they were saying it sure sounded like the roommate he'd grown accustomed to. Lossing patients with just waiting for answers he moves the rest of the way up to the two, already pretty sure they couldn't see them or hear them, they sure hadn't reacted to him so far and he hadn't exactly been the quietest, but he just needed to confirm that. Test exactly what this situation was.
no subject
"A 'frame up' job is one thing, but he's got a bone saw in there, among other things. He's going to cut her body up into pieces!"
"...Yes? Because human authorities would be confused by the claw marks?" The girl glances toward the door thoughtfully. "It's a shame we didn't have any of this asshole's DNA to put between her teeth and under her nails, I think people should know that she died fighting."
The guy groans and presses the heels of of his hands against his eyes, falling backward to lay fully on the ground. "Aren't you here to offer me emotional support?" he complains. She snorts and rolls over to rest her weight on her elbows and look at him.
"I," she says loftily, "am here to chronicle the end of Stacia Highstorm's story. I will use your monkey mourning to enhance the tale, and everyone will agree that it is well-told and honors her in the telling." She considers him thoughtfully for a moment. He hasn't taken his hands off of his eyes. "You're upset. More than usual. Can you put it in words, or do I need to sit on you until some of the sad comes out first?"
He makes a noise halfway between a laugh and a sob and rolls over onto his stomach, burying his face in his arms. She pushes herself up and clambers awkwardly on top of him, using her own body like a weighted blanket.