peckishmods (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
peckishmods) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
peckenpaugh2020-06-01 11:18 am
peckishmods) wrote in peckenpaugh2020-06-01 11:18 am
[UNMODERATED]
[CRITERIA: Minimum 8 Tags]
[METAPLOT]
You are suddenly, exquisitely aware of just how disgusting human skin is, conceptually. Soft and rubbery (except where it isn't) and full of holes. It's a layer of chewy sponge covering meat and water. Not even enough hair to be pleasantly furry, except in seemingly random places.
This being, living this memory, sees you as a meat and water sausage in a spongy casing, and, wow, it is impressed. You have managed to make art, to make music, to take flight, to build marvels that scrape the sky and plumb the depths of your (not nearly thick enough) seas, to touch the moon and split atoms. All while being not much more than water and meat. Admirable.
"Please, one more time," says a man in long black robes sitting across from you — from the memory's owner, rather.
You, the human, can recognize this as an interrogation room: plain gray walls, a few uncomfortable folding chairs surrounding a rectangular metal table. On the far wall is a window which is actually a two-way mirror, but you can see through clearly with these strange inhuman eyes. A gaggle of men and women in similar robes to the man in front of you stand huddled together peering in. You also catch a glimpse of the memory owner's reflection, human, but not quite right. And hard to say how.
In front of you on the table, a manilla folder, many papers and photos, and a single lump of coal. In front of the man in the dark robes, his hands, clenched to fists from nerves. And in one of those clenched hands, a pen, white and gold, which he clicks incessantly.
"I… … … do not … eat...the rock," the memory owner struggles to say in a voice like gravel scraping together.
The man hums. "I'm very sorry. Is there anything we can get you?"
A long stretch of silence follows. The memory owner thinks.
"Coffee," they reply finally after a great deal of pondering through the English words they know.
"O-oh," says the robed man. He looks embarrassed. Then turns and nods to the people behind the window. One of them runs off, assumedly to grab a coffee.
"The... hunger. The… … … what is word? One who eats all." Painfully slow, the memory's owner tries once more to explain why they are here. "Freed from our land. Inviteed to ... yours. Have watched. Do not want suffering anymore. Weeeee have come here to offer. We know how to contain. Can watch the gates as they heal. If you push him back."
The man in the dark robes sits in stunned silence for a long time. In fact, everything is completely still. Quiet. It takes a moment to realize that the memory has frozen.
[CRITERIA: Minimum 8 Tags]
[METAPLOT]
You are suddenly, exquisitely aware of just how disgusting human skin is, conceptually. Soft and rubbery (except where it isn't) and full of holes. It's a layer of chewy sponge covering meat and water. Not even enough hair to be pleasantly furry, except in seemingly random places.
This being, living this memory, sees you as a meat and water sausage in a spongy casing, and, wow, it is impressed. You have managed to make art, to make music, to take flight, to build marvels that scrape the sky and plumb the depths of your (not nearly thick enough) seas, to touch the moon and split atoms. All while being not much more than water and meat. Admirable.
"Please, one more time," says a man in long black robes sitting across from you — from the memory's owner, rather.
You, the human, can recognize this as an interrogation room: plain gray walls, a few uncomfortable folding chairs surrounding a rectangular metal table. On the far wall is a window which is actually a two-way mirror, but you can see through clearly with these strange inhuman eyes. A gaggle of men and women in similar robes to the man in front of you stand huddled together peering in. You also catch a glimpse of the memory owner's reflection, human, but not quite right. And hard to say how.
In front of you on the table, a manilla folder, many papers and photos, and a single lump of coal. In front of the man in the dark robes, his hands, clenched to fists from nerves. And in one of those clenched hands, a pen, white and gold, which he clicks incessantly.
"I… … … do not … eat...the rock," the memory owner struggles to say in a voice like gravel scraping together.
The man hums. "I'm very sorry. Is there anything we can get you?"
A long stretch of silence follows. The memory owner thinks.
"Coffee," they reply finally after a great deal of pondering through the English words they know.
"O-oh," says the robed man. He looks embarrassed. Then turns and nods to the people behind the window. One of them runs off, assumedly to grab a coffee.
"The... hunger. The… … … what is word? One who eats all." Painfully slow, the memory's owner tries once more to explain why they are here. "Freed from our land. Inviteed to ... yours. Have watched. Do not want suffering anymore. Weeeee have come here to offer. We know how to contain. Can watch the gates as they heal. If you push him back."
The man in the dark robes sits in stunned silence for a long time. In fact, everything is completely still. Quiet. It takes a moment to realize that the memory has frozen.
Chanel scoffs. Of course she doesn't need help. It's good natured, though, no real offense taken. "I've got it." She assures, though she doubtlessly looks comical as she climbs, clutching one shoe (blessedly small sized since it was on her foot the whole time.) She's whistling Mungojerrie and Rumpelteazer during the climb, likely only because she's aware Eddy doesn't know the reference.
She lands with a little flourish and grabs back her pen. "...But you can borrow it sometimes." She assures, stepping toward the portal.
She lands with a little flourish and grabs back her pen. "...But you can borrow it sometimes." She assures, stepping toward the portal.
Edited 2020-06-08 01:27 (UTC)
"Good," Trudy declares. That the it did what it ought to and that she didn't have to kiss a tree. "Alright, which house is next? Mary Grace?"
[MODERATED]
[CRITERIA: Defeat the NPCs]
[METAPLOT]
"Peter, it's truly an honor to have you join us," says the man in the tweed jacket with warm bend to his words. That smile is comforting, but the kindness it shows was achieved with repetitious practice, perhaps in front of a mirror. He even gives a little bow of his head, speaking to the tall, dark trees that surround him, to the warm night air, to the stones that spring up from the ground, and the fairy ring of toadstools he stands before.
The man in tweed isn't sure where Peter is. He thinks Peter could be all of this, and in a way he isn't wrong. Humans are often like this, particularly the ones who can't use magic. All weird reverence, sweeping bows and formal language while they show no love for one another, let alone the living thing they call home. Peter — Pouch — finds it fascinating in a sad sort of way. This one, this man, though perhaps a little overconfident, does seem to have good intentions. He wants to help.
It’s with this thought that the view of the memory contracts, not an all-around experience of a dark clearing within the forest north of Peckenpaugh, but a singular point of reference, coalesced from the moisture in the air and solidifying into cold. Rather than watching the fourteen cloaked figures standing guard around the clearing from above, the view stares at just half of them now.
Pouch, here Peter, puts on his laziest grin and finally speaks, "So you really think it'll help?"
"My boy, let me tell you," starts the man, Burton Bland, with a giddy buzz in his tone. "Once I thought that we were simply dissolving that wall between magic and mundane to make a better world, but I have seen what we're tapping into. This goes far, far beyond mere spellwork. We'll achieve true harmony. No more war. No more needless consumption. No more destruction."
He certainly seems to believe it, himself. And of all the things that walk upon him, humans have always been most captivating to Pouch; the easiest to believe in, to rally behind, the most enjoyable to support. But, humans are as fallible as they are fantastic—that is part of why Pouch likes them so much, but here he knows it’s reason to be careful. He is charmed, but doubt hangs in his mind. "What about the other ritual steps?"
The people in robes — none of them magic folks, Pouch can tell — start to shift. Discomfort fills the air, but Burton Bland the Tweed Man rushes in to reassure, "Heart of the land, blood of man. We've got it all taken care of...once we have what you can give us. Don't worry."
An end to pointless destruction. An end to fighting and killing and burning. It's worth it. It has to be worth it. "Alrighty," Pouch says, chipper. He touches his chest and then extends his hand, palm open. In the center of his palm is a winged seed, one half of the paired fruit of a maple tree.
Burton Bland reaches out, and his hand freezes in mid-air.
[CRITERIA: Defeat the NPCs]
[METAPLOT]
"Peter, it's truly an honor to have you join us," says the man in the tweed jacket with warm bend to his words. That smile is comforting, but the kindness it shows was achieved with repetitious practice, perhaps in front of a mirror. He even gives a little bow of his head, speaking to the tall, dark trees that surround him, to the warm night air, to the stones that spring up from the ground, and the fairy ring of toadstools he stands before.
The man in tweed isn't sure where Peter is. He thinks Peter could be all of this, and in a way he isn't wrong. Humans are often like this, particularly the ones who can't use magic. All weird reverence, sweeping bows and formal language while they show no love for one another, let alone the living thing they call home. Peter — Pouch — finds it fascinating in a sad sort of way. This one, this man, though perhaps a little overconfident, does seem to have good intentions. He wants to help.
It’s with this thought that the view of the memory contracts, not an all-around experience of a dark clearing within the forest north of Peckenpaugh, but a singular point of reference, coalesced from the moisture in the air and solidifying into cold. Rather than watching the fourteen cloaked figures standing guard around the clearing from above, the view stares at just half of them now.
Pouch, here Peter, puts on his laziest grin and finally speaks, "So you really think it'll help?"
"My boy, let me tell you," starts the man, Burton Bland, with a giddy buzz in his tone. "Once I thought that we were simply dissolving that wall between magic and mundane to make a better world, but I have seen what we're tapping into. This goes far, far beyond mere spellwork. We'll achieve true harmony. No more war. No more needless consumption. No more destruction."
He certainly seems to believe it, himself. And of all the things that walk upon him, humans have always been most captivating to Pouch; the easiest to believe in, to rally behind, the most enjoyable to support. But, humans are as fallible as they are fantastic—that is part of why Pouch likes them so much, but here he knows it’s reason to be careful. He is charmed, but doubt hangs in his mind. "What about the other ritual steps?"
The people in robes — none of them magic folks, Pouch can tell — start to shift. Discomfort fills the air, but Burton Bland the Tweed Man rushes in to reassure, "Heart of the land, blood of man. We've got it all taken care of...once we have what you can give us. Don't worry."
An end to pointless destruction. An end to fighting and killing and burning. It's worth it. It has to be worth it. "Alrighty," Pouch says, chipper. He touches his chest and then extends his hand, palm open. In the center of his palm is a winged seed, one half of the paired fruit of a maple tree.
Burton Bland reaches out, and his hand freezes in mid-air.
"Makes booze," Eddy offers in Pepsi's defense. Or, she tries to. He's yet to actually see evidence of any successful brewing. Still, this raises her quite a bit in his estimation as far as both kittens and cactuses go.
This is also not his first rodeo being whimsically sized, and it seems that rescuing the furry (slash spiky) community of Elflock Falls is something that fate has called on him to do. (Or he just has really coincidental luck when it comes to finding seeds.)
With his vision still bothering him, he hangs close to Winter. Could be something that needs looked into. "Sometimes you gotta eat it," Eddy adds helpfully, thinking back on a lot of memory pudding.
This is also not his first rodeo being whimsically sized, and it seems that rescuing the furry (slash spiky) community of Elflock Falls is something that fate has called on him to do. (Or he just has really coincidental luck when it comes to finding seeds.)
With his vision still bothering him, he hangs close to Winter. Could be something that needs looked into. "Sometimes you gotta eat it," Eddy adds helpfully, thinking back on a lot of memory pudding.
Edited 2020-06-08 01:34 (UTC)
[UNMODERATED]
[CRITERIA: Minimum 9 Replies]
Fist bump, fist bump, double fist bump, wiggle your fingers and slap some skin, hip bump, chest bump, hip bump, high five—the truly unnecessary number of steps in this handshake just keep piling on, but Alva Berzelius has no problem remembering every single one. When you’re blessed with a brain as gifted as Alva’s, you have to make a choice: use it for good, for evil, or for utter fucking nonsense.
And you don’t need a mind as sharp as his to figure out which one he chose.
“You’re slippin’ Hel,” he teases the elder Altizer sister as she rapidly cycles through the choreography with him, and she aggressively rolls her eyes. “One of these days you’re gonna forget to slap me.”
“Oh honey, you and I both know that’s impossible,” she scoffs, blasting finger guns at him. A warm breeze plays with Alva’s hair and kicks at the floral garlands hanging from the chuppah, nestled against a towering boulder. Rows and rows of white folding chairs stretch out along white sand beside them.
“I dunno,” he hooks Helen by the arm and swings her around in a single do-si-do. “It kiiiinda seems like you won’t be able to handle another step.”
“I’m sharp as a tack, Alv, sounds like you’re just—” she pauses for a quick chicken dance, “—projecting.”
“What’ll it be then?” He grabs her hand and pulls her close. “What do you wanna do to me?”
“I swear on Laveau.” From the second row of chairs, Clytemnestra Altizer barely spares a glance for the pair up front. There’s a spiral-bound planner on her lap, multicolored tabs sticking out along the pages, a small stack of textbooks and notebooks on the chair beside her. “If you two start making out, I’m calling off the wedding.”
The scene freezes, but not before a sensation known only as pride at having successfully irritated your fiancee blooms in Alva’s chest.
[CRITERIA: Minimum 9 Replies]
Fist bump, fist bump, double fist bump, wiggle your fingers and slap some skin, hip bump, chest bump, hip bump, high five—the truly unnecessary number of steps in this handshake just keep piling on, but Alva Berzelius has no problem remembering every single one. When you’re blessed with a brain as gifted as Alva’s, you have to make a choice: use it for good, for evil, or for utter fucking nonsense.
And you don’t need a mind as sharp as his to figure out which one he chose.
“You’re slippin’ Hel,” he teases the elder Altizer sister as she rapidly cycles through the choreography with him, and she aggressively rolls her eyes. “One of these days you’re gonna forget to slap me.”
“Oh honey, you and I both know that’s impossible,” she scoffs, blasting finger guns at him. A warm breeze plays with Alva’s hair and kicks at the floral garlands hanging from the chuppah, nestled against a towering boulder. Rows and rows of white folding chairs stretch out along white sand beside them.
“I dunno,” he hooks Helen by the arm and swings her around in a single do-si-do. “It kiiiinda seems like you won’t be able to handle another step.”
“I’m sharp as a tack, Alv, sounds like you’re just—” she pauses for a quick chicken dance, “—projecting.”
“What’ll it be then?” He grabs her hand and pulls her close. “What do you wanna do to me?”
“I swear on Laveau.” From the second row of chairs, Clytemnestra Altizer barely spares a glance for the pair up front. There’s a spiral-bound planner on her lap, multicolored tabs sticking out along the pages, a small stack of textbooks and notebooks on the chair beside her. “If you two start making out, I’m calling off the wedding.”
The scene freezes, but not before a sensation known only as pride at having successfully irritated your fiancee blooms in Alva’s chest.
"Okay," Wyatt says, then grabs a random leaf and stuffs it into his mouth.
Winter's eyes widen, two blue saucers, as she watches Wyatt chomp on a leaf. She almost lets him eat it, but then...
"That's not for people," she says, flat, reaching to grab it out of his mouth like he's a disobedient puppy. As she works, she goes on, nodding her head toward that far table across the gap. "Bet it's one of the cacti."
"That's not for people," she says, flat, reaching to grab it out of his mouth like he's a disobedient puppy. As she works, she goes on, nodding her head toward that far table across the gap. "Bet it's one of the cacti."
Presley watches this scene with his arms crossed. "Sometimes you just have to let him do it and learn on his own," he comments.
But with Winter handling the Webberley Problem, Presley starts walking towards the cacti pots. He glances at Eddy as he goes past the others. "You alright there, Waxweiler?" He sounds... sincere, or at least as sincere as Presley is capable of sounding.
But with Winter handling the Webberley Problem, Presley starts walking towards the cacti pots. He glances at Eddy as he goes past the others. "You alright there, Waxweiler?" He sounds... sincere, or at least as sincere as Presley is capable of sounding.
Eddy blinks his eyes like he's trying to flush something out of them, and it seems to be doing some good. "Yeah. Fine," he answers, a little surprised by the ?concern?. It's mostly true now, at least. The extremely helpful explanation he offers is, "Thing earlier."
He also makes no move to stop Wyatt or argue with Presley's advice. This was a wholly predictable outcome, and he really only has himself to blame.
"Gotta be something she'd wanna eat," he clarifies, belatedly.
He also makes no move to stop Wyatt or argue with Presley's advice. This was a wholly predictable outcome, and he really only has himself to blame.
"Gotta be something she'd wanna eat," he clarifies, belatedly.
Eddy takes a step back to clear room for her landing, and whatever that tune is, he's glad to hear it. "Be honored," he says, and follows after her.
Chanel and Eddy completed the memory "Cat Mayor"!
Upon emerging from the memory out into the auditorium, the portal snapped shut behind them.
Elsewhere in the auditorium, Ex-Mayor T-Bone and dewdrops, a magimagicicada were freed.
You can check your token totals in Pouch's shop here, and maybe see if there's anything worth grabbing while you're there!
Upon emerging from the memory out into the auditorium, the portal snapped shut behind them.
Elsewhere in the auditorium, Ex-Mayor T-Bone and dewdrops, a magimagicicada were freed.
- Eddy and Chanel each earned 5 Tokens for completing the memory!
- They earned an additional 1 Token for locating the linchpin and an additional 2 Tokens for replying beyond the minimum!
You can check your token totals in Pouch's shop here, and maybe see if there's anything worth grabbing while you're there!
Edited 2020-06-08 02:48 (UTC)
Armani can't look away. He begins to lift his hand to touch the face flowers, just to see what will happen, when the flowers begin to wilt and wither.
He gasps softly and watches. Watches her lips move to form what would have been her final words, if she could only speak them, and watches her dissolve into light.
Maybe they freed her. Maybe that's what she meant, what she wanted from them. He hopes it is. But either way, she's dead. And that's good.
Armani looks down at the mask, turning it in his hands to examine it, before dropping it on the ground. He turns, now, inhaling deeply and taking in the rest of their surroundings with a critical eye. They still haven't found the linchpin.
Armani moves with purpose toward the creature with the red crystal wreath, tiptoeing to steal its crown.
He gasps softly and watches. Watches her lips move to form what would have been her final words, if she could only speak them, and watches her dissolve into light.
Maybe they freed her. Maybe that's what she meant, what she wanted from them. He hopes it is. But either way, she's dead. And that's good.
Armani looks down at the mask, turning it in his hands to examine it, before dropping it on the ground. He turns, now, inhaling deeply and taking in the rest of their surroundings with a critical eye. They still haven't found the linchpin.
Armani moves with purpose toward the creature with the red crystal wreath, tiptoeing to steal its crown.
Under Armani's fingers, the red crystal wreath turns brilliant glowing gold. The warm light shines down on the dark face of the being, illuminating six gray orbs that must be eyes, the only visible features set into this strange, inhuman face.
Gathered at the corners of each one, faintly glittering, are tears, frozen in time.
Armani has found the linchpin.
[MEMORY COMPLETE! You have defeated the encounter and found the linchpin. There's nothing left to do but leave through the portal.]
Gathered at the corners of each one, faintly glittering, are tears, frozen in time.
Armani has found the linchpin.
[MEMORY COMPLETE! You have defeated the encounter and found the linchpin. There's nothing left to do but leave through the portal.]
Armani lowers the wreath onto his own head and reaches up to oh-so-tenderly cup the creature's face in his hands.
"He dies tonight," he tells it sweetly. A threat and a promise.
"He dies tonight," he tells it sweetly. A threat and a promise.
Still dazed and certainly not thinking about the linchpin, Aris' dark eyes follow Armani as he moves quickly across the beach to grab the crown, which comes away glowing brightly in his hand before he drops it down on his own head. It looks a bit like a halo. He shakes his head and chimes in with open awe, "You're...really good at this!"
Then, almost as an afterthought, he moves to grab his journal from the ground; there's no reason to stay here now, so it's better to get moving.
Then, almost as an afterthought, he moves to grab his journal from the ground; there's no reason to stay here now, so it's better to get moving.
Edited 2020-06-08 03:32 (UTC)
Chanel punches the nearest person to her as soon as she realizes whose memory this is, and what exactly they're seeing. An excited punch. Relatively gentle. It's absurd that the memory doesn't actually do much to clear up the nuances of either of these relationships. She wrinkles her nose. "This family's weird." She proclaims.
Aristotle, Armani and Imogen completed the memory "A Distant Shore"!
Upon emerging from the memory out into the auditorium, the portal snapped shut behind them.
Completing this memory and defeating the encounter freed the spirits of a Coalseam Creeper Ritualist and an Infinity Cultist! Elsewhere in the auditorium, ramps, a magimagicicada was freed!
You can check your token totals in Pouch's shop here, and maybe see if there's anything worth grabbing while you're there!
Upon emerging from the memory out into the auditorium, the portal snapped shut behind them.
Completing this memory and defeating the encounter freed the spirits of a Coalseam Creeper Ritualist and an Infinity Cultist! Elsewhere in the auditorium, ramps, a magimagicicada was freed!
- Aristotle, Armani and Imogen earned 5 Tokens for completing the memory!
- They earned 5 Tokens for completing a difficult memory encounter, plus an additional 2 Tokens bonus each for fighting so well!
- They earned 1 Token for finding the linchpin.
You can check your token totals in Pouch's shop here, and maybe see if there's anything worth grabbing while you're there!
Imogen perks, indeed thinking of the stars. Draco. A tattoo idea if she's ever had one.
She peers at Merlin with eyebrows raised, then crosses back over to his side, satisfied in her somewhat ragged appearance and immediately distracted by promises of spectacle and victory.
"Touch it again." She reaches out herself, prodding the candlestick roughly with her index finger.
She peers at Merlin with eyebrows raised, then crosses back over to his side, satisfied in her somewhat ragged appearance and immediately distracted by promises of spectacle and victory.
"Touch it again." She reaches out herself, prodding the candlestick roughly with her index finger.
Edited 2020-06-08 05:11 (UTC)
"Ow," Eddy says, more out of surprise than anything else. "Pretty sure it went fist bump fist bump, not arm punch." He punches her arm back anyway.
That this family is weird really goes without saying. "Think she's playing the long game for insurance?"
That this family is weird really goes without saying. "Think she's playing the long game for insurance?"
Taking that as a 'no', Merlin reflexively reaches out to steady the candle and gives Imogen a nod of acknowledgment. Done with hesitation, he then reaches out to grab the flame. He does, however, brace himself. If it somehow burns in him this state...he doesn't intend to do more than flinch in front of her.
Adrian climbs into this memory with wide-eyed wonder. How strange to go from a nightmare to this. "Well..." he says, head turning this way and that, as he examines their surroundings, unsure of what to do. "At least we're dressed appropriately?"
Wyatt allows himself to be divested of his snack without complaint, as if he's pretty used to this. It didn't taste very good, anyway. "Okay, so let's get to the cactuses," he announces cheerfully. He gives Pepsi one last pat on her oversized head, then sets off toward those prickly plants. "Someone should get her a cute collar," he muses.
"I don't smoke, and the wand Pouch gave me is... unreliable," Trudy says. "Oh, maybe we could start a fire with my glasses by magnifying the sun! I've always wanted to try that!"
Page 8 of 17