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deercountry2023-05-08 02:34 pm
reddosmod) wrote in deercountry2023-05-08 02:34 pm
PLAGUES AND FREEDOM
MAY 2023 EVENT
TRAPPED
CULICIDAE
HOME IS WHERE THE HEART IS
CODING
Due to the cyclical nature of Trench, some of last year's May Prompts are available for use. Prompts 1 & 2 may be used if you wish, unchanged from the previous year's prompts.
IMAGE DESCRIPTORS IN ORDER OF APPEARANCE
Prompt One
[Image One: Close up of feral monstrous human with green-yellow eyes]
[Image Two: Humanoid encased in volcanic rock, screaming]
Prompt Two
[Image One: Giant Mosquito in the woods]
[Image Two: Human covered in swarm of leeches]
Prompt Three
[Image One: Creepy looking old open door]
[Image Two: Familiar subterranean cavern with statue]
Prompt One
[Image One: Close up of feral monstrous human with green-yellow eyes]
[Image Two: Humanoid encased in volcanic rock, screaming]
Prompt Two
[Image One: Giant Mosquito in the woods]
[Image Two: Human covered in swarm of leeches]
Prompt Three
[Image One: Creepy looking old open door]
[Image Two: Familiar subterranean cavern with statue]
WHEN: Anytime in May
WHERE: Anywhere in or outside of Trench
CONTENT WARNINGS: Psychological Horror, Out-of-body Experience, Potential Self-Harm, Potential Feelings of Severe Isolation, Possible Monster Transformation, Possible Death
WHERE: Anywhere in or outside of Trench
CONTENT WARNINGS: Psychological Horror, Out-of-body Experience, Potential Self-Harm, Potential Feelings of Severe Isolation, Possible Monster Transformation, Possible Death
[Excerpt From the Transmorgriphia, a pamphlet on Bausphomette penned an indeterminate number of years ago. It is commonly found in Cassandra, if one asks more about the Pthumerian.]
The next day, you feel trapped. You can still move around, still talk, still do everything that you normally do. Anyone who might look at you would see nothing wrong, and in fact you go through the motions for the next day or two without any physiological differences, other than that you feel a cold and almost clammy sensation all along your skin, like it is tingling and alive somehow. Yet, still, you feel trapped in your body, as if your body was a prison and you have to somehow figure out a way to get out of it, to become something else. You aren't meant to be what you are, no matter how out of place this sensation is, and you have to get out of your current state or something awful will happen. You become increasingly sure of this. It is almost as if you are riding inside of your own body, and something else is occupying it, displacing you and making you feel deeply wrong. You can try to explain it to others, but the sensation is so out of the norm that it can be hard to put into words, and deep down the feeling that nobody would believe you may permeate for many people.
Within days, however, the sensation becomes all consuming. You are certain of it. You have to get out of your body, have to become something else, have to transform. Something is supposed to be helping you, but they're not, and you have to take drastic actions. At this point, one of three things may happen. The first and arguably the most awful is that you resist the urge to do anything truly drastic. You soldier through, but you do not tell others or find nobody who can sympathize with your situation. You suffer in silence for days until you begin to curl in on yourself, your body calcifying like your mind as you convert into a shriveled, curled up statue in a shape eerily like a cocoon. At this point, death is a mercy as your heart slowly stops. The bad dream will linger for a week after you come back to life, but it will be over at least. The second is almost as bad, and certainly more dangerous for others. You succumb to the urge and take drastic measures to break out of your body. This could come in the form of cutting yourself in horrific fashion, skinning yourself alive, dashing your head against a rock, or some other very obviously fatal and gruesome activity meant to get out of the shell that you perceive to be your body. The only problem is that you don't die. You do, in fact, immediately transform into your Beast state if you do this, insane with rage that must either be calmed normally or necessitate your death. The third is that you are talked down from this state. A friend shows empathy to you, reassuring you that you are in fact fine, that perhaps whatever you are experiencing is a curse, or maybe you're having an actual identity crisis. It isn't actually important how the person empathizes with you, or even if they really understand what you are experiencing. It is the fact that they are empathizing, trying to help you. That interaction, much like what the Night Walkers do every day, helps to cleanse the malaise and, though the harrowing experience may haunt you for a day or two more, the comfort can keep you from doing anything too dangerous.
Wastes, if asked about this effect later on in the month, will say that the cocoons of Argonaut's lesser moths are always cleaned up by Bausphomette in advance of the Flushed Moon. Still filled with so much hope for a new possibility, they carry an almost toxic level of desire for change that the Pthumerian cleanses them lest they coerce people into a state of confusion and malaise under the light of the flushed moon. It is one of many acts that the Pthumerian usually takes in order to protect the people of Trench and help ease them through transitions in a healthy fashion. The Disciples will confirm that their influence is weak this month, because they are performing an incredibly powerful ritual, one whose hum of power can be felt throughout the month.
FAQ:
Bausphomette and Madam Generosity are thought of by many as being closely associated, though many have wondered why it is that the Shedding Ceremony is always found to occur during Madam Generosity's influence rather than Bausphomette's, given the latter's focus upon evolution, sense of self and transformation. One thought as to why stems from the difference in their attitudes on the subject. Where Madame Generosity focused upon the process of change and the need for all things to evolve, Bausphomette represented the fact that change should ultimately come from who one truly is, that it should be healthy and that one should neither be trapped in a state of being, nor forced to be altered.The experience seems to come from something so innocuous. You look, and you see what appears to be the left over shell of a moth's cocoon. Its larval and pupal stages are done and now it has spread its wings and fluttered away. By the look of things, it couldn't have been more than a few weeks old, and quite possibly was one of the lesser brethren of Argonaut. Funny, though, you don't remember seeing these around last year when it was this time of year. If you mention it to someone in Trench, their face will pale and they will swallow hard, saying that Bausphomette usually cleans those up at the start of the month. Perhaps you shrug it off, or perhaps you decide to research it or even collect it. It doesn't matter, because that's when everything goes awry.
The result of this line of thought has been the long-standing belief that Bausphomette is less of the creator of change, and more its regulator in the city of Trench. They focus their energies upon making sure that transformations that occur over which they watch do so in a fashion that is healthy, and at the same time in a way that reflects the “True Self” of the person transforming. When Bausphomette is strong, then, sense of self is also found to be very healthy, and likewise beastly transformations are rarer if not unheard of. Likewise, without that regulation it is possible for a person to find themselves stymied and unable to transform when they wish to and are ready to do so, or just as bad could find themselves transforming against their will to a form that is anything but healthy. For this reason, Bausphomette is one of the most consistently revered among the Disciples for what is seen as a very positive influence upon all in Trench, especially Sleepers.
The next day, you feel trapped. You can still move around, still talk, still do everything that you normally do. Anyone who might look at you would see nothing wrong, and in fact you go through the motions for the next day or two without any physiological differences, other than that you feel a cold and almost clammy sensation all along your skin, like it is tingling and alive somehow. Yet, still, you feel trapped in your body, as if your body was a prison and you have to somehow figure out a way to get out of it, to become something else. You aren't meant to be what you are, no matter how out of place this sensation is, and you have to get out of your current state or something awful will happen. You become increasingly sure of this. It is almost as if you are riding inside of your own body, and something else is occupying it, displacing you and making you feel deeply wrong. You can try to explain it to others, but the sensation is so out of the norm that it can be hard to put into words, and deep down the feeling that nobody would believe you may permeate for many people.
Within days, however, the sensation becomes all consuming. You are certain of it. You have to get out of your body, have to become something else, have to transform. Something is supposed to be helping you, but they're not, and you have to take drastic actions. At this point, one of three things may happen. The first and arguably the most awful is that you resist the urge to do anything truly drastic. You soldier through, but you do not tell others or find nobody who can sympathize with your situation. You suffer in silence for days until you begin to curl in on yourself, your body calcifying like your mind as you convert into a shriveled, curled up statue in a shape eerily like a cocoon. At this point, death is a mercy as your heart slowly stops. The bad dream will linger for a week after you come back to life, but it will be over at least. The second is almost as bad, and certainly more dangerous for others. You succumb to the urge and take drastic measures to break out of your body. This could come in the form of cutting yourself in horrific fashion, skinning yourself alive, dashing your head against a rock, or some other very obviously fatal and gruesome activity meant to get out of the shell that you perceive to be your body. The only problem is that you don't die. You do, in fact, immediately transform into your Beast state if you do this, insane with rage that must either be calmed normally or necessitate your death. The third is that you are talked down from this state. A friend shows empathy to you, reassuring you that you are in fact fine, that perhaps whatever you are experiencing is a curse, or maybe you're having an actual identity crisis. It isn't actually important how the person empathizes with you, or even if they really understand what you are experiencing. It is the fact that they are empathizing, trying to help you. That interaction, much like what the Night Walkers do every day, helps to cleanse the malaise and, though the harrowing experience may haunt you for a day or two more, the comfort can keep you from doing anything too dangerous.
Wastes, if asked about this effect later on in the month, will say that the cocoons of Argonaut's lesser moths are always cleaned up by Bausphomette in advance of the Flushed Moon. Still filled with so much hope for a new possibility, they carry an almost toxic level of desire for change that the Pthumerian cleanses them lest they coerce people into a state of confusion and malaise under the light of the flushed moon. It is one of many acts that the Pthumerian usually takes in order to protect the people of Trench and help ease them through transitions in a healthy fashion. The Disciples will confirm that their influence is weak this month, because they are performing an incredibly powerful ritual, one whose hum of power can be felt throughout the month.
FAQ:
- This effect is easily avoided by simply never finding a cocoon.
- The condition worsens over a period somewhere between 3-7 days.
- If a Sleeper transforms into a Beast, they can be cured of beasthood in normal fashions, or killed in normal fashions.
- It is possible to speak about this out of body experience, but it is difficult to explain what is going on, and to articulate one's feelings. Characters are not stopped from doing so, but they may feel increasingly uncomfortable speaking about their problems.
- Any positive empathy and conversation about the problem can lead to a cure of the effect if the player wishes it. This does not need to take any specific form, so long as the issue a person has is acknowledged and they are listened to sincerely.
WHEN: Anytime in May
WHERE: Around Trench, especially areas of stagnant water between populated regions
CONTENT WARNINGS: Insect Horror, Blood Loss, Disease, Pathogen, Possible Character Death, Hallucinations
WHERE: Around Trench, especially areas of stagnant water between populated regions
CONTENT WARNINGS: Insect Horror, Blood Loss, Disease, Pathogen, Possible Character Death, Hallucinations
Mosquitoes are awful creatures, and most people would hate them. It's no surprise, then, that great lengths are usually taken to try and minimize their presence in the city of Trench. The fact that they could transfer contact between blood types, even including the toxic nature of many vilebloods would make them a hazard to everyone. So, the people of Trench usually take extensive steps to kill them off whenever they rise. However, this month the marshy conditions are making that more difficult than normal. Though many of the Architects and Arcane Scholars in town assure anyone who ask that the problem will be gotten under control soon enough, for now there are mosquitoes everywhere. It's hard to avoid the little bastards, and they're causing a real problem in Trench.
First of all, there are just the simple dangers of veritable plagues of tiny blood suckers floating around and trying to get a taste. They can be found anywhere a stagnant pool of water lies unattended, and the clouds of them are numerous enough to be a real threat. If you're assaulted by one such cloud, they will endeavor to suck you dry of whatever blood you may have inside of you. This isn't likely to be fatal, but it can be deeply unpleasant as hundreds of bites result in actual blood loss! Worse, even those who might have protections against this sort of thing like toxic blood will find that these bugs are surprisingly resistant to any blood-power based defenses, even though they tend to be less interested in Vilebloods and very interested in Darkbloods. Regardless of their preferences, everyone is in peril.
Of course, regular mosquitoes are bad, but they're not the worst. There's the big ones. Wretched Stirges and Bloodbugs that are reminiscent of monstrous insectoids from other realities have at times managed to populate in Trench. Usually, they are kept to a miniscule level, but currently they can be found in town. They can be anywhere from the size of a housecat and hunting in packs, or humanoid in size. Their hunger is proportional to their body mass, meaning that they very well could suck a person dry. They're thankfully very much killable, but the buggers are fast and hideous, so be prepared to fight them off if you're spending a lot of time outside, especially in the areas between districts.
That's not the worst of it, sadly. Such creatures are known to be harbingers of disease in many worlds, and these are no exceptions. A particularly nasty condition known as “Blood Rot” is the very reason that mosquitoes are so reviled in Trench. When one feeds from two different types of blood in a twenty-four hour period, there is a very real possibility that the blood itself becomes corrupted in the process. It guarantees that the awful creature will die by the end of that period, but they may transfer some of that corrupted blood in the process of biting an unwitting target. The symptoms are brief stages of intense delirium and hallucinations, usually of monstrous sorts that can cause distress for anyone, followed by a very negative impact on the blood. A sleeper's blood powers begin to act up in ways that are violently dangerous to themselves and those around them. A Darkblood could find themselves teleporting wildly and without warning into hazardous places, or accidentally teleporting dangerous objects over a friend's head. Vilebloods might become toxic to the touch or start exuding putrid gases when they breathe, sickening those around them. Palebloods might very well start causing the emotions of people around them to worsen considerably, or see false visions that lead to bad decisions. Coldbloods could find their powers wildly out of control, burning and freezing things around them. Warmbloods could find themselves with new, uncontrollable powers that are intensely painful. These are symptoms of the real threat. The disease, within a week, will begin to manifest its final and terminal stages. The blood inside of the person rots, causing them to develop severe fatigue and black lesions in the form of veiny patches all over their bodies. At this point, they have to be treated within hours, or they will die horribly, coughing up black blood everywhere. Should a person die this way, corrupted blood crystals form on their body which could theoretically be harvested, though they are highly toxic and only produce a poisonous effect of severe, debilitating nausea, usually upon those mishandling them!
The cure is thankfully a simple one, but it isn't exactly pleasant. They must have the corrupted blood removed from them, generally through leeches. There are leeches that are in the possession of the Blood Ministers who are trained to seek out and devour corrupted blood like this. They can do so safely, and so long as an infusion of the same kind of blood as the victim normally has is produced, they can recover. However, the farther in they are, the more difficult the process is and the longer it takes. Though, so long as they are not coughing up their own blood, they can recover within a week at the worst.
First of all, there are just the simple dangers of veritable plagues of tiny blood suckers floating around and trying to get a taste. They can be found anywhere a stagnant pool of water lies unattended, and the clouds of them are numerous enough to be a real threat. If you're assaulted by one such cloud, they will endeavor to suck you dry of whatever blood you may have inside of you. This isn't likely to be fatal, but it can be deeply unpleasant as hundreds of bites result in actual blood loss! Worse, even those who might have protections against this sort of thing like toxic blood will find that these bugs are surprisingly resistant to any blood-power based defenses, even though they tend to be less interested in Vilebloods and very interested in Darkbloods. Regardless of their preferences, everyone is in peril.
Of course, regular mosquitoes are bad, but they're not the worst. There's the big ones. Wretched Stirges and Bloodbugs that are reminiscent of monstrous insectoids from other realities have at times managed to populate in Trench. Usually, they are kept to a miniscule level, but currently they can be found in town. They can be anywhere from the size of a housecat and hunting in packs, or humanoid in size. Their hunger is proportional to their body mass, meaning that they very well could suck a person dry. They're thankfully very much killable, but the buggers are fast and hideous, so be prepared to fight them off if you're spending a lot of time outside, especially in the areas between districts.
That's not the worst of it, sadly. Such creatures are known to be harbingers of disease in many worlds, and these are no exceptions. A particularly nasty condition known as “Blood Rot” is the very reason that mosquitoes are so reviled in Trench. When one feeds from two different types of blood in a twenty-four hour period, there is a very real possibility that the blood itself becomes corrupted in the process. It guarantees that the awful creature will die by the end of that period, but they may transfer some of that corrupted blood in the process of biting an unwitting target. The symptoms are brief stages of intense delirium and hallucinations, usually of monstrous sorts that can cause distress for anyone, followed by a very negative impact on the blood. A sleeper's blood powers begin to act up in ways that are violently dangerous to themselves and those around them. A Darkblood could find themselves teleporting wildly and without warning into hazardous places, or accidentally teleporting dangerous objects over a friend's head. Vilebloods might become toxic to the touch or start exuding putrid gases when they breathe, sickening those around them. Palebloods might very well start causing the emotions of people around them to worsen considerably, or see false visions that lead to bad decisions. Coldbloods could find their powers wildly out of control, burning and freezing things around them. Warmbloods could find themselves with new, uncontrollable powers that are intensely painful. These are symptoms of the real threat. The disease, within a week, will begin to manifest its final and terminal stages. The blood inside of the person rots, causing them to develop severe fatigue and black lesions in the form of veiny patches all over their bodies. At this point, they have to be treated within hours, or they will die horribly, coughing up black blood everywhere. Should a person die this way, corrupted blood crystals form on their body which could theoretically be harvested, though they are highly toxic and only produce a poisonous effect of severe, debilitating nausea, usually upon those mishandling them!
The cure is thankfully a simple one, but it isn't exactly pleasant. They must have the corrupted blood removed from them, generally through leeches. There are leeches that are in the possession of the Blood Ministers who are trained to seek out and devour corrupted blood like this. They can do so safely, and so long as an infusion of the same kind of blood as the victim normally has is produced, they can recover. However, the farther in they are, the more difficult the process is and the longer it takes. Though, so long as they are not coughing up their own blood, they can recover within a week at the worst.
WHEN: Any time in May
WHERE: Somewhere Else?
CONTENT WARNINGS: Flesh Cocoons, The Belief that You have Died, Memory Loss, Heavy 4th Wall Implications.
WHERE: Somewhere Else?
CONTENT WARNINGS: Flesh Cocoons, The Belief that You have Died, Memory Loss, Heavy 4th Wall Implications.
Well, that's it then. Knackered yet again. You don't even know how it happened. One minute you were alive, and now you're not. Pushing up Daisies, or perhaps more accurately crystals, that's what your body has to be doing. You felt it as it happened. You were just standing there, minding your own business, when you felt what almost seemed to be a colossal titan's blow to the chest, right about where your heart is. For some of you, you didn't even realize that you had a heart, but now that it's missing from your chest, you know that you desperately needed it in that moment, and the old love muscle's disappearance from your chest cavity has caused your body to collapse to the ground like a ragdoll and rapidly cool. Hopefully you weren't in too humiliating of a position, but this is Trench, so I wouldn't be hoping for the best right now. Nothing for it. Don't hang about here feeling sorry for yourself. It's time to hop to it, roll up those stats again and get vengeance after you get over the death flu. There's just one teensy little problem.
You aren't where you expected to be.
You're still catching your breath when you realize that you are somewhere different. The place feels deeply familiar, but you cannot place it. You would swear that you've been here before, but your memory refuses to pin it down at first. For a few of you, the memory eventually begins to gel while you look around what seems to be a platform of cobbled stone, surrounded by crystals. It looks unnervingly like a place that no longer exists, a glimmer of the memories of Deerington, deep underground, where one of three doors once stood, but not the door that was ultimately opened. There are differences, and everywhere in this darkened chamber you smell the acrid, salty bite of brackish seawater. There is a constant dripping sound, and you feel like you aren't alone. This is probably about the time that you are looking for an exit.
There are two of them. Along one path, you see a stairwell leading down towards a doorway. Immediately opposite it in the circular space you stand is another stairwell, leading upwards towards the scintillating surfaces of undulating light that eerily fills the chamber. At the top of the stairs is another doorway. The moment that you have seen both doorways, there is a growl that rumbles from behind you, a low rumble. “If you had a choice. What would you choose?” The presence does not linger, nor does it answer questions. It is not sinister in tone, but it is likewise not human. You have three choices. Wait, and see what happens or test one of the two doors. Each, despite their alien nature, feels deeply familiar for some reason. While you are here, you may even see other sleepers similarly trapped, and be able to talk with them, perhaps even enter a door together.
(NOTE: Only actual canon mates can enter the doorway leading down together. Anyone can enter the doorway leading upwards together.)
Through the doorway that leads down, you find yourself in your old life, at the exact moment from which you departed to arrive in Trench. The very last memory you felt plays out, and all memory of Trench, of the life you lived in it, of Deerington (should your memories go back that far), is gone. You do not remember a moment of the time that you spent in this world, and instead you pick up with your life exactly as you were about to in that split second of time. This vision could last for mere seconds, or it could continue for days. Though it is unlikely, it might even last for a year. At some point, for just a split second you will sense the reality, that something is not right, that it is still nothing more than a vision, and when you blink, you will find yourself back before the door again, the latch now firmly closed. You will remember all that you saw, a memory of returning to your world, to your life, to everything that you were, but one where Trench was not even a memory.
Through the doorway that leads up, you open it to find yourself returned to the streets of Trench, changed. You happen to glance at a mirror and you see it in your face. There are gray hairs, wrinkles, weathered years. Perhaps you are in shape, perhaps not, but you can remember time's passage suddenly. You have lived in Trench for years now, for decades. Like most real memories, things get muddled the farther back you go, so you don't remember it all clearly, but you remember holding down a job, finding a way to deal with blood corruption, putting up with frequent awfulness but making a life in the midst of it all. Beasts and monsters have been a threat, but you have soldiered on, and now you are home. It isn't a temporary home, but rather the home you have owned for a long time. You have family in this place, a life. The form it takes is as unique as you yourself are, and it is both as awful as one might imagine at times, and yet it is also a life where the happiness of having chosen to live here has outweighed the bad. You can travel among the places in Trench, use the lantern network, meet with your friends who remained behind, see the children playing at the orphanage. At some point, you will vaguely recall as a passing memory having spoken to someone from your old world, and that they had reassured you that 'you' were still present in their world, though they don't know how it was possible. You just smiled that day. It all feels so very normal, and perhaps you linger here for a while, but eventually this too feels like the vision it is, and you blink before finding yourself before a now locked door.
Only when you have opened one, or both of these doors do you find that there is another door, right in the center. It's a simple wooden door. You don't have to take it yet, but you know for a fact that it has to be the only way out. The moment your hand touches the door, you hear the growl again. “I cannot open the passageway for you yet, for it is not mine to open or close, but this I can give you. One last bit of this world's pull that I will cleanse from you.” And, as you step through the door, you no longer feel compelled to remain in Trench. You do not feel compelled to leave, but likewise you do not feel compelled to remain. It is simply a place now. You awaken with a gasp, right where you were, covered in the fleshy strands of a cocoon, as if you had visited home.
F.A.Q.
You aren't where you expected to be.
You're still catching your breath when you realize that you are somewhere different. The place feels deeply familiar, but you cannot place it. You would swear that you've been here before, but your memory refuses to pin it down at first. For a few of you, the memory eventually begins to gel while you look around what seems to be a platform of cobbled stone, surrounded by crystals. It looks unnervingly like a place that no longer exists, a glimmer of the memories of Deerington, deep underground, where one of three doors once stood, but not the door that was ultimately opened. There are differences, and everywhere in this darkened chamber you smell the acrid, salty bite of brackish seawater. There is a constant dripping sound, and you feel like you aren't alone. This is probably about the time that you are looking for an exit.
There are two of them. Along one path, you see a stairwell leading down towards a doorway. Immediately opposite it in the circular space you stand is another stairwell, leading upwards towards the scintillating surfaces of undulating light that eerily fills the chamber. At the top of the stairs is another doorway. The moment that you have seen both doorways, there is a growl that rumbles from behind you, a low rumble. “If you had a choice. What would you choose?” The presence does not linger, nor does it answer questions. It is not sinister in tone, but it is likewise not human. You have three choices. Wait, and see what happens or test one of the two doors. Each, despite their alien nature, feels deeply familiar for some reason. While you are here, you may even see other sleepers similarly trapped, and be able to talk with them, perhaps even enter a door together.
(NOTE: Only actual canon mates can enter the doorway leading down together. Anyone can enter the doorway leading upwards together.)
Through the doorway that leads down, you find yourself in your old life, at the exact moment from which you departed to arrive in Trench. The very last memory you felt plays out, and all memory of Trench, of the life you lived in it, of Deerington (should your memories go back that far), is gone. You do not remember a moment of the time that you spent in this world, and instead you pick up with your life exactly as you were about to in that split second of time. This vision could last for mere seconds, or it could continue for days. Though it is unlikely, it might even last for a year. At some point, for just a split second you will sense the reality, that something is not right, that it is still nothing more than a vision, and when you blink, you will find yourself back before the door again, the latch now firmly closed. You will remember all that you saw, a memory of returning to your world, to your life, to everything that you were, but one where Trench was not even a memory.
Through the doorway that leads up, you open it to find yourself returned to the streets of Trench, changed. You happen to glance at a mirror and you see it in your face. There are gray hairs, wrinkles, weathered years. Perhaps you are in shape, perhaps not, but you can remember time's passage suddenly. You have lived in Trench for years now, for decades. Like most real memories, things get muddled the farther back you go, so you don't remember it all clearly, but you remember holding down a job, finding a way to deal with blood corruption, putting up with frequent awfulness but making a life in the midst of it all. Beasts and monsters have been a threat, but you have soldiered on, and now you are home. It isn't a temporary home, but rather the home you have owned for a long time. You have family in this place, a life. The form it takes is as unique as you yourself are, and it is both as awful as one might imagine at times, and yet it is also a life where the happiness of having chosen to live here has outweighed the bad. You can travel among the places in Trench, use the lantern network, meet with your friends who remained behind, see the children playing at the orphanage. At some point, you will vaguely recall as a passing memory having spoken to someone from your old world, and that they had reassured you that 'you' were still present in their world, though they don't know how it was possible. You just smiled that day. It all feels so very normal, and perhaps you linger here for a while, but eventually this too feels like the vision it is, and you blink before finding yourself before a now locked door.
Only when you have opened one, or both of these doors do you find that there is another door, right in the center. It's a simple wooden door. You don't have to take it yet, but you know for a fact that it has to be the only way out. The moment your hand touches the door, you hear the growl again. “I cannot open the passageway for you yet, for it is not mine to open or close, but this I can give you. One last bit of this world's pull that I will cleanse from you.” And, as you step through the door, you no longer feel compelled to remain in Trench. You do not feel compelled to leave, but likewise you do not feel compelled to remain. It is simply a place now. You awaken with a gasp, right where you were, covered in the fleshy strands of a cocoon, as if you had visited home.
F.A.Q.
- Any character currently in Trench is invited to experience this prompt at any time during the month of May. It may happen at any time within that month, and because time does not work normally in this event, when a character experiences this vision does not impact what other characters they may experience it with (e.g. a person who experiences it on the 1st may also experience it with someone who experiences it on the 31st because wibbly wobbly timey wimey.
- This prompt can be avoided, though one side effect of it cannot. By the end of the month of May, there is a sense in which your character will no longer feel a magical compulsion to remain, or to leave in Trench. They will feel that they are clearly able to choose what they wish, should at a later time it become possible to return home of their own free will, or likewise to choose to remain.
- Though Bausphomette removes the compulsion to remain in Trench, it was not of Pthumerian origins, but rather natural to the world of Trench. Your character may choose to believe or disbelieve this.
- Any character may experience this place once, but may remain within the doorways for as long as you wish. In Trench, they will collapse without warning and appear to be in a cocoon as if in a canon update for 24 hours.
- Your character does not actually die. Bausphomette is just being dramatic.
- ONLY canon mates can experience your canon together through the doorway leading down. This is because your characters will experience what happens in their actual canon, without AU effects. They will not remember anything of Trench, as if it never happened.
- You may experience the door leading up with any character or characters that you wish, as many times as you wish (as if they entered the door at slightly different times, and you simply run into each other in Trench.
- The feeling of freedom your character experiences does not impact the app/drop cycle in any way, but does come with the feeling that at some point you may actually have the choice to remain, or to leave.
- You may experience up to one calendar year at most in each doorway. Eventually the vision will fade.
- Your canon experience is verbatim what happens in your canon. No curses. If there are multiple possible endings for your character from your canon point, you may experience one of these along with the feeling that there were other possibilities. Your Life in Trench experience will have recollections of blood corruption, beasthood, curses and monsters, but though there is danger there will be a clear message that they have found a way to live more, or less, comfortably in the city. It also does not feel definite, but rather an honest possibility.
- The vision of Trench will leave your character with the clear hint that, even if they choose to remain in Trench, their original self will still live out the events of their life. Their world will not experience the lack of their presence. They will simply be a splinter, a fragment, an alternate who chose to remain in this world. (Congratulations. You are now an AU.)
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"Don't go getting broody on me," says the man settling into a cross-legged seat of his own and nestling this small, sticky assailant into an even more comfortable cradle. "I can only nag about more grandchildren so much before they throw me out."
He knows perfectly well that's not what Midoriya means. Goodness knows the subject of their first daughter's arrival in their household has been a running joke at his expense since he finished making a nest for her in the middle of their bed and banished all three of them to the couch and floor so she could get some much needed rest after being coaxed off the ceiling.
"Are you actually all right? One of these days they're going to pop a knee out of socket, you know, and I'm certainly not carrying you like this all the way to the hospital."
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"I keep telling you, that's their choice. We have our fill here." Look at all these not-grandkids willing to recreate Lilliput with him. Isn't being attacked on all sides the definition of fun?
"I'm fine. I haven't forgotten how to fall, and you know my bones aren't as bad as that yet. I'm still no Gran Torino, though..." He'll never forget his first internship as a student so long ago in another world. That old man kicked his ass.
"What's grandchildren?" the little one pipes up.
"Your children's children. They're part of what makes a family."
"But I don't have children! I'm too little!"
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They all still speak to him, and none of them have become tormented warlords, so he can't have done too badly.
"And you don't have to have children or grandchildren for a family," he informs the child, shifting his attention and his tone, "A family is like a garden. You can have sorts of different parts making it up, from flowers to herbs to vegetables to mushrooms, but it's all still a garden. Families can be any arrangement of people who decide to plant themselves next to each other."
"...oh." The child scrunches up their face thoughtfully. "Can I be a potato?"
"You are a potato, and that's why we're going to peel you, slice you up, and fry you until you're golden brown." Paul smiles benevolently, but with perhaps a little too much teeth, and the child shrieks in horrified delight.
"Noooo!"
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Ever the defender, delicately attuned to distress of any kind, his calm voice saying this shouldn't be a surprise. His own mother spent nearly his whole childhood worrying about him, and he learned how at her knee. He scoots forward with a long-suffering grunt and pets the child's hair soothingly.
"...You know that's not good for flavor."
"Nooo!" comes another giggling cry as Midoriya sets to tickling them. Still round and pudgy with the last vestiges of baby fat, they do resemble a hearty tuber. Midoriya stops when he has to narrowly dodge a small slap to the nose.
"Let's see what the little collectors brought in before they riot and take me prisoner again."
Rising, he leaves a fleeting kiss on Paul's cheekbone and dusts himself off. ("Ewww!" the child cries without comprehension of why kisses are supposed to be gross but clearly copying what the older ones say.)
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"I hope there are no dangerous buried artifacts this time." That had been an awkward conversation with some of the other caretakers. Paul plops the tenderized potato back on the ground, now that they're newly energized, and unfolds lithely to standing.
The potato latches onto his shin immediately, and Paul looks down with a quirked eyebrow that does nothing to deter them.
The first of the collectors are starting to pour back in. One of them, a serious looking little girl with hair braided neatly across her scalp, struts over with an air of victory with something hidden behind her back.
"I found two things," she declares, before producing a weathered canid skull festooned with a profusion of pale mushrooms growing from its eyesockets. She presents it with gloved hands, one of the scouts who's taken Paul's lectures about safety seriously. "And I did a spore print of them, and a sketch."
"Hm...not bad, not bad at all. What do we think? In the running for a prize?"
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By now, the children know to expect excitement and rambling from him at every leaf or doodle they bring him. Without the anchoring weight of a potato, he's free to shuffle around the festooned skull in a semicircle to take it in at different angles.
"Everything is in the running for a prize until submissions are closed," he adds as he tries to return his voice to carefully neutral.
A short, small girl with a straight-cut brown bob steps forward. She uses her Darkblood powers to delicately place a handkerchief on an end table and float a weathered metal box out of her hands (covered in gardening gloves).
"It was revealed by the rains, so I excavated it. I thought about not taking it, but the box is nearly rusted through. I think you'll know best how to protect what's inside, Mr. Midoriya."
The latch sheds flakes of orange-brown patina as she uses her mind to undo it and lift the lid away to reveal a large envelope. Midoriya has already gone very still. Then he moves without thinking of gloves, carefully opens the envelope, and lays the first photograph on the table. It has a warm, grainy quality, evidence of being developed from film.
"That's me," he says in a tight voice, "eating lunch with a bunch of people. I'm 16 and in my original Hero costume. We set up camp on the beach to fight a sea monster--see the tents? These photos were taken by someone named Ichimonji Hayato."
He produces another photograph of a quiet section of shoreline with a sparring ring and two distant figures sitting silhouetted against the light. "There was a time I hid evidence of my friends. I was afraid people would go after them because of me. But I couldn't bring myself to destroy the photos or their negatives."
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This might be one of the times that calls for a variance in the system. A sublevel of his thought is already considering distributing a group prize all around to leave none of the children out of this precious moment - because this artifact is the obvious winner.
Paul comes up behind Midoriya and wraps his hands around his shoulders, bending over to rest his cheek against soft, wild curls as he looks at the photographs in soft wonder.
"I didn't know," he murmurs, and what a gift it is to still be surprised, after all these years. He doesn't know if those silhouetted figures are who he thinks they might be, but oh, he remembers the photographs, the photographer. He remembers all their brave and brilliant friends. The ones who left, the ones who returned, the ones who stayed.
"Why were you afraid someone would hurt your friends, Mr. Midoriya?" A boy pipes up, innocently curious. Paul doesn't answer for Midoriya. He squeezes his shoulders lightly instead, at the same time the child still latched to his leg hugs him tighter in turn.
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"Wow, it's really you... in costume!" one small child stares from the photo to Midoriya and back again.
Midoriya nods solemly. "I made it my business to stop people from hurting others, and sometimes those people would fight back by hurting my friends."
He brings one scarred hand up to hold Paul's forearm, thumb worrying over his sleeve. He leans his head against Paul's.
"I begged Hayato-san for these. I was going to destroy them. He didn't give them up easily. I didn't anticipate him challenging me to a f--uh, a game. Then I buried them. I just... left them there, and eventually I forgot..."
The more memories he has to hold onto, the more he forgets. He forgot what the clouds looked like that day. He only remembers how Paul looked as he shared in his sadness and joy.
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Then there was the long and troubled journey through actual parenting, which has been a work of decades that will end when Paul's bones rest in his grave and not a minute before, and he's learned to keep his opinions about child-sized knives much more discreet.
"And the universe brought them back to you," one of the children declares, with solemn shrewdness, "Everything unfolded the way it was supposed to."
Paul makes note of the girl and gives her an approving wink, which makes her straighten her back and fold her hands even more primly in front of herself. It's good to know some of his diplomatic philosophy lessons have stuck.
"That was a long time ago. Things were much more complicated then. Now, everything is much more...peaceful." Paul rubs Midoriya's bicep soothingly, feeling some of the scars that earned that peace underneath the span of his palm. "This was the right time for them to come back to us. Thanks to our very clever and dedicated scouts - isn't that right?"
The scouts in question beam, and a chorus of affirmation spills out of them. There's another crush of little bodies around them as the more sensitive children reach out to pat Midoriya's elbows and sides, offering their tactile support. They're a very touchy bunch, this particular generation.
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"That's right." He gently smiles. "And you all get to see them now."
He lays the last of the photos out, scenes of people strategically poring over maps, cooking large meals over fires, or sitting cloaked in the dark as an Omni projects a movie about a boxer. As Midoriya indicated earlier, he is the one constant in them, a tousle-headed green seedling with innocently wide round eyes he never completely regained.
"Thank you." He lets his thanks bask in a warm silence as he meets as many eyes as he can. His eyes moisten, but he wills himself not to cry and derail everything because,
"The contest isn't over." And now he remembers a bit of All Might's showmanship, the way he paused and smiled for effect. "There is still time to amaze us over and over with your curiosities."
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To some degree, that was true for all of them. Kaworu, raised in little better than captivity, Paul, isolated for his own safety, Midoriya, excluded by virtue of his difference - and for all of them, raising their own children had involved discovering things about the personal dynamics of youth they'd been unaware of.
Like: while all children, like all adults, are prone to some degree of selfishness, child are also prone to fits of startling generosity. Paul sees no tides of animosity towards the girl who dug up the photos, only passing praise as the rest of them scramble to get themselves back on track at Midoriya's smiling prompting.
Paul stays comfortably where he is, still draped around Midoriya like the cat he's been accused of being in the past. He watches the way the child pass by the table of photos, and feels quite content with the outcome of this visit.
"They love you almost as much as I do," he murmurs, just for Midoriya, "I'm nearly jealous."
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Paul is accused of being a cat in the present, though Midoriya thinks better of it in this moment. He nuzzles his temple against Paul's cheek.
"Funny thing to say; tell that to our children," he says dryly. Then more softly, "Were my eyes really that big?"
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A shameless lie. Kaworu is only the favourite of two thirds of their children, at most. Paul is sure he has the loyalty of their eldest yet, and the remainder favour Midoriya.
(They love their parents differently, as all children do. There's no real comparison. If there's anything Paul is sure they got right, it was teaching their children that love that differs isn't love that has to be ranked. There's enough to go around for everyone, always.)
"And they were. Almost too big," Paul says, more softly, "I kept getting lost in them. You'd turn them on me, and I'd want to do anything you ever needed me to do." He hums, nuzzling back. "I suppose that's one of the things that hasn't changed."
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More benevolent trickery with words; he's the only angel. Favorite angel, best friend, most loved parent... Love itself defies expectation and rank. It is a disservice to people's idiosyncrasies to demand equal shares of something that is by nature boundless.
He flicks his gaze up at Paul and observes the pensive shadow his brow makes over his eyes, green like his, green like the forest and the sea. (It is a myth that the sea is only blue.)
"Gross!!" a small child interrupts before bursting into playful laughter. They're just old enough to know what romantic affection is, but still young enough to eschew it without knowing why.
"It's not!" Midoriya protests weakly, clutching Paul's arm around him. Multiple sets of large eyes are now on them. "Please go on, show us the next thing," he practically begs, though whether his request will be followed or prove enough of a distraction is left to chance.