plot roll | gulliver's travels

[groundrules]

Image source.

GULLIVER’S TRAVELS | EIDRIS

The dragons of Eidris remain agitated after Aiva hatches her eggs and her mate Ariste is allegedly wounded by a Minaras reconnaissance ship, the Relint. Outraged, Eidris aristocracy demands satisfaction, but war-wary king Thivar III soothes tempers until Minaras’ involvement is proven. Scouts report the Relint has crashed in the Sibilant Sands wasteland near Serthica, where dragons used to roam and mate. Dragon warlord Cain d’Ubiq organises a three-day flight expedition to recover the Relint, accepting companions.

✘ OBJECTIVE: locate and investigate the Relint.

■ Thirty dragons and riders, led by Cain d’Ubiq, leave once Eidris rises overground at 6:00am. Cain and two of his companions fly martial, fire-breathing dragons.

■ Every dragon rider is given three days of smoked meats for their dragons, food and water supplies for themselves, two blankets, binoculars and climbing hooks and gear. Riders are advised to wear warm full-body clothing and to cover their mouths.

■ Departing Eidris, you learn that you fly in the middle of the sandstorm season, amid deep reddish mists that rapidly exhaust you and vicious whirlwinds prone to unsaddle you. Don’t get lost and catch anyone who falls!

■ Through mental links, riders can sense their dragons are unnerved by the weather and the thought of confronting the Relint. Many transmit image glimpses of the Eidris-Minaras conflict, when dragons frequently battled warships.

■ Dragons are wilful and predatory creatures: try not to slip off when they suddenly pair up to play tag, hunt large birds or chase the flocks of nocturnal peaceful cloud whales.

■ The Sibilant Sands are a long, red, arid and withered stretch of land east of Serthica, littered by fog-drenched peaks and abyssal, sudden canyons. You may experience spells of inexplicable thirst, dizziness and listlessness.

■ Each night, the dragon party alights at watch points — very high plateaus, that host a few man-made caves. Cain d’Ubiq recommends sheltering your dragons. Squeeze in with them, or negotiate warmth with your fellow travellers: the Sibilant Sands are fiercely cold at night, and large fires can alert hungering man-sized hawks.

■ The stormy weather and recent events have left your dragons exceptionally skittish, prone to fits of anguish. Your physical presence — stroking, feeding, or grooming — reassures the dragons, as can your explicit efforts to send them happy, positive feelings. Think. Happy thoughts.

■ At long last, you reach the Relint: a small plane vessel that has crashed and remained stranded at a vast height between two steep cliffs that house several hawk nests.

■ Dragons are too large to fit in the space occupied by the Relint without being seen and attacked by the hawks — but you can leave your mounts behind and ascend with your climbing gear. Beware brutal hawks and storms.

■ Those who finally enter the Relint find no human remains — only two man-sized, straw-filled burlap mannequins, with a puddle of cold dark water at their feet. The mannequin ‘pilot’ wears a crudely painted fox face. The ‘navigator’ has a bear one.

■ Drop a line if your character plans to touch the dark water: you can get information, but please be aware there will be some unpleasant consequences.

■ The ship is very battered, showing Serthica markings: only RELINT remains visible from a distance, from the originally engraved AERIAL HEALING UNIT.

■ Dried blood is smeared on the back of the ship, where a fresh indentation has taken out the Relint’s engine. Any dragon that smells a sample can convey through images this is the blood of Ariste.

■ Grab whatever you need and fly home: the Relint creaks, rattles, and is at all times just about ready to fall.

QUESTIONS

NPC ACCESS: CAIN D'UBIQ

Comments

QUESTIONS

[groundrules]

Like camping, but bring your own wasteland.

IT'S A LEAK

[groundrules]

Up to three characters can get information by touching the dark water in the Relint, but it will come at the cost of a bit of temporary body horror. No permanent physical damage.

First come, first served...

NPC ACCESS | CAIN D'UBIQ

[groundrules]

Drop a starter here, if you want a thread with Cain d'Ubiq — the only request is to please bring questions and be available to finish this by 20 September.

[song_of_fire]

This is such a bad idea, but Dany is touching the water

[song_of_fire]

I feel bad always asking about this and I appreciate your patience. So:

1. How would the dragons respond to Drogon in general, especially while skittish? Is it like introducing new cats to each other?

2. Can Drogon follow her into the Relient. He’s much smaller and all wyvern-y

[groundrules]

No trouble at all!

1. You know what, let's go with both — some dragons love Drogon, some are a bit territorial and threatened by him. He's small, so I imagine on average most dragons would be more keen on him than defensive around him, but let's have a little bit of both, why not? Whatever you're feeling during a thread, because I imagine you could have fun with both.

2. Sure, you go, lil guy!


Also, if you want, you're very welcome to have her use some of ~ Targaryen magic ~ aka 'Targaryens are catnip' to soothe dragons during that aspect of the flight. Or you can have it not work at all. I don't want to dictate either way, but it's an option if you want it.

[song_of_fire]

Oh holy crap yes. I'll totally lean on that Targaryen magic. Any chance for Valyrian blood stuff and dragon soothing I'm so down for!

[valeas]

let's do this

[gladiokinesis]

Diego is exactly this dumb

[groundrules]

Nonsense, it's a great idea!

Cost (excuse the c/p): whatever limb or part of the body that touches the dark water becomes fleetingly 'contaminated': for four-eight hours (your choice), it will feel as if that body part is assailed by hundreds of sharp needles from within. The pain suffered will range from severe discomfort to spells of acute pain that no magic or healing can alleviate. It will feel as if something is inside the body part, stretching it out, filling to assume its shape from within and shifting bones and flesh in the process. This pain fades gradually.

Outwardly, there will be no visible bodily change, and your character will suffer no long-term biological damage as a result of this episode. The brief contamination leaves no sign of possession, although the body part will feel 'death-touched' or reek of death for up to three days, to any necromancer your character encounters, or to anyone sensitive to life and death energies.

Dragons will be greatly reluctant to interact with your character in this contamination period, but you can assume they'll allow (very rocky) transport, if you need a fast getaway.

Please check in and we can adjust the above, if any of it touches on any personal triggers for you — definitely do not want you feeling forced to play out something that makes you uncomfortable.

Gain: Daenerys can see a memory glimpse from the perspective of someone or something in the pilot's seat. Its hands seem to transit between human flesh and the coarse, tattered material of burlap. Aerial instructions ('turn east,' 'keep at height,' 'expect obstacle near...' ) can be heard murmured from behind in a staggered, mechanical voice that says to prepare for landing — before a blinding light erupts from the west and the Relint begins to rattle down in what was decidedly not its planned landing. A guttural, croaked sound previously shared on the network can be heard from behind the viewer. ( content warning: the iconic Grudge movie sound, for reference ). The Relint crashes.

[groundrules]

Nonsense, it's a great idea!

Cost (excuse the c/p): whatever limb or part of the body that touches the dark water becomes fleetingly 'contaminated': for four-eight hours (your choice), it will feel as if that body part is assailed by hundreds of sharp needles from within. The pain suffered will range from severe discomfort to spells of acute pain that no magic or healing can alleviate. It will feel as if something is inside the body part, stretching it out, filling to assume its shape from within and shifting bones and flesh in the process. This pain fades gradually.

Outwardly, there will be no visible bodily change, and your character will suffer no long-term biological damage as a result of this episode. The brief contamination leaves no sign of possession, although the body part will feel 'death-touched' or reek of death for up to three days, to any necromancer your character encounters, or to anyone sensitive to life and death energies.

Dragons will be greatly reluctant to interact with your character in this contamination period, but you can assume they'll allow (very rocky) transport, if you need a fast getaway.

Please check in and we can adjust the above, if any of it touches on any personal triggers for you — definitely do not want you feeling forced to play out something that makes you uncomfortable.

Gain: Emilia can see a very rattled memory glimpse, torn between instances of awareness and blackout. The viewer seems to lack mobility and the shakiness of its perspective and of the ground beneath suggest it is rolling on the ground. From behind, laughter as an unseen man kicking the viewer asks what in the world they're supposed to do with 'these'? Another joins in, speculating 'Chrichter' has 'lost it,' but the other man is 'welcome to be the one to go and ask him.' The image settles as the viewer stops rolling, showing an empty streak of cement, as dark water starts to leak from the viewer. An immense shadow deepens ahead — as the feet of a dragon come into view, presumably when the great beast lands. Between the creature's howls, Emilia can, with difficulty, hear a new muffled voice — perhaps belonging to the dragon rider — urging the other two men to,'Take care with them. You know he hates them hurt.'

[groundrules]

Nonsense, it's a great idea!

Cost (excuse the c/p): whatever limb or part of the body that touches the dark water becomes fleetingly 'contaminated': for four-eight hours (your choice), it will feel as if that body part is assailed by hundreds of sharp needles from within. The pain suffered will range from severe discomfort to spells of acute pain that no magic or healing can alleviate. It will feel as if something is inside the body part, stretching it out, filling to assume its shape from within and shifting bones and flesh in the process. This pain fades gradually.

Outwardly, there will be no visible bodily change, and your character will suffer no long-term biological damage as a result of this episode. The brief contamination leaves no sign of possession, although the body part will feel 'death-touched' or reek of death for up to three days, to any necromancer your character encounters, or to anyone sensitive to life and death energies.

Dragons will be greatly reluctant to interact with your character in this contamination period, but you can assume they'll allow (very rocky) transport, if you need a fast getaway.

Please check in and we can adjust the above, if any of it touches on any personal triggers for you — definitely do not want you feeling forced to play out something that makes you uncomfortable.

Gain: Diego can see a memory glimpse from the perspective of... something collapsed, unmoving. The vantage is very narrow and land-bound, as if the viewer's head touches the ground, paralysed. Ahead, at distance, blurred masked men prepare the Relint. One is in awe they were able to find parts old enough to match the vessel's requirements and patch it up. Another remarks the real strike of luck and strangeness was finding a vessel of this fleet, period — since the entire medical fleet was presumably burned down with the last signs of the 'coal sick.' One of the men suddenly wrenches back in horror, asking if they're going to get sick for having touched it, but the other two laugh, saying the 'coal sick' is gone and never coming back.

emilia di carlo, kindom of the wicked.

[valeas]

» THE RED MISTS

The sun looks blooded when the mist gathers. Then there is nowhere to look.

An already skittish dragon veers sharply in her attempt to circumvent the inevitable, locked in redness and strengthening winds. The fine grit of dust pervades everything: above and below, at the fore and back.

Suddenly, recognition.

Opal need not see to know that one of her brethren is close, and unnerved just the same. Her rider prepares to pitch them lower, pulse pounding in her ears. The mist recedes just long enough to give her a glimpse —

» SHELTER FOR A NIGHT

"There is room for us both," Emilia declares.

It will be a snug fit, two dragons and two riders, but the alternative is worse. The fog has grown denser, and the cold biting. It is not the unforgiving ice of the Seven Circles, but it is vicious and will spare no one.

If not the cold, then surely the hawks.

And so cave it is.

» RELINT

She ignores her exhaustion, the kind that wants to sink to bone.

They're too close to turn back now, to stop and rest now, to suffer misgivings. Far from Serthica, it's as though she can still hear the heartbeat of Vassarizhia, the tick of its clock growing louder. They race against it, time.

From this vantage point, the plane looks small, though she knows little of planes.

"It could fall any moment," she finds herself saying.

It's never, or now.

» WILDCARD

[ anything else goes here! feel free to surprise me. brackets and prose both equally welcome. ]

wildcaaaaaaard

[downswing]

( The dragons, then. If Lan Wangji has learned aught in this citadel, it is transgression — how to reduce himself, splintered into silent steps and hungry, pale hands, and to abscond the shape of himself in silence. How to emerge, more thief in daylight than honoured cultivator, touch trembled when it lingers over that which is not Lan Wangji's to catch.

The dragons fend for themselves, after their — trouble. A hushed, ill-gotten tragedy, the turbulence of one creature, infecting the many. They say, Aiva had her reasons, the better part of her soul nearly slain. And can Wangji, of all men, fault the grief of her and how it shaped her anger, wrong? It has left the remaining dragons at tenuous balance, skittish or hissing or prone to fits of arrogant disaster Lan Wangji has been instructed not to provoke. Better, more learned men than he say, Do not approach the dragon in their nests.

Yet the dragons, Wrathion has shown him, harbour death. The dragon might be the key to this. Come break of bleeding, liminal dawns, when the flock of winged creatures cuts the skies like arrow tips, descending back down — he does not think, he has entered Eidris without cause, without passport, no doubt without the leave of its caretakers. Certainly, without invitation.

He does not think he will intensify discomfort that the dragons already hungrily harbour. He does not think he is unwanted, unnecessary, wrong — he barters only a barrel of fresh well water from the nest attendants who crowd and wait and murmur, all youthful effervescence, That's him, Cain, you see his mount? They say they took down fifteen ships together in the war, can you imagine? In one day? That's him! And Lan Wangji's feet skid on fresh oils and lamp spill like viscera, gleaming, and it's to draw the dragons close, they say, to reflect lights, They like flame.

When they come down, they're jut of gem beauty, span of their strong wings a forlorn, carnal majesty, and breath's ribboned from Lan Wangji's lungs as if it's their claws wrenching it raw, raking — as if, when Emilia descends, dainty sweet shine of her dragon's skins blinding, he is somehow yet expected to survive the moment. At the last second, before the dragon's coiling tail nearly sweeps him, when the hand of an attendant draws him clumsily back, he recovers himself — retreats, lets the dragon find its footing, compact, then loosen it in place. When he nears again, it's to sit the barrel of water before the creature, where it sways tentatively under the heft of her greedy muzzle.

He anticipates rejection before Emilia must hiss it — but all the same, he binds his hands near the dragon's thick, heaving flank, to offer the witch a step for her dismount. )

Say nothing. ( By way of greeting, where they are watched. Do not betray him, the irregularity of his presence, as ill-fitting here as the cloying stench of spiritual rot that descends now, gelid, the more heartbeats he spends in Emilia's company, and he blinks, blinks again and his eyes nearly water, blinks and corrects himself — ) ...tell everything.

→ wrathion

[downswing]

( A cultivator and a majestic dragon of lore walk into a tavern —

Tale as old as tattered time, but Lan Wangji humbly begs correction: he drifts, dragged down the labyrinthine, gilded streets of Eidris by the hand of every urchin he has tipped unnecessarily with Wei Ying's coin. It strikes him, onnce they have brought him near the drink establishment, that they intend for the handsome rich man to weaponise the advantage of his age and procure them wine for their untried mouths.

...and Wrathion — distinguished, if not through the gleaming dark of his skins, than the absurd radiance of his disapproval — doesn't saunter into the tavern, as much as he seems to have gently... rolled close to its walls and decided in favour of glaring gawking passers-by into submission. A wise tactic. Lan Wangji himself deploys him often, when he isn't dominated by children.

To tell by the startled, pointing, awkwardly laughing crowd that's gathered — including the one painter rushing to claim rights of distribution for every two-pence sketch of Eidris' single black dragon, you saw it here first, don't be buying from no other — he's doing a poor job of it. Lan Wangji, who partly intercedes only to escape the fetters of his juvenile captors, hasn't accomplished much better on this day.

In the crowd circle closest to Wrathion, a woman's searching her market bags, shining an apple as if she has discovered the sophisticated heights of bribery. Near her, a man launches into a detailed historical review of dark dragons and why they are, in fact, carbon blue, and it is only through a deviation of light beams and the weakness of the human eye, that this here shiny scale spread is perceived as black — Another man clumsily presents a pitchfork, as if he is uncertain whether he prepares to poke Wrathion, or scratch his hide.

Lan Wangji's long-suffering sigh could quake the earth. )

Apologies. This is my dragon companion. ( 'lo, but the Lan cannot utter a word of lie. ) He is. ( One blink. Another. Truly, the bliss of addressing a crowd. ) ...lost.

[blackscales]

[ This was a mistake.

Wrathion had hoped he might be allowed to spend longer around Aiva and her clutch this way, questioned less if he was a fellow dragon, but it seems they truly are unused to his coloration. There's something darkly fitting to know that wherever he travels, he is among the last of his kind.

Of course, the other problem is that now he has the indignity of being treated like a wild animal. Adults and children, pointing and laughing, making a fuss. Titans, this is far too much attention.

If only he could get away from these people so he could see the whelps --

He cannot tell if Lan Wangji is a blessing or a curse, in this.

The dragon swings his enormous head around toward the man and lets out a low rumble of warning. Where is this scheme going, and why isn't it getting there faster?

Wrathion supposes he can play along, but he doesn't have to like it. ]

[valeas]

So... potentially morbid question.

Would it be possible to bring back a piece of burlap? Like the fox or the bear head? Is more dark water leaking out a risk? My thinking is it might help Team Gulliver connect some dots with Team Neutral Zone for this one.

[downswing]

( ...and then, Wrathion solicits the crowd for attention in the manner of harrowing crescendo that brings kings to their knees, empires to destruction and indifferent matrons to the rice ladle they'll cordially relieve on your back, for your trouble. Rebellion is a fine streak in heroes of lore and children.

From dragons it seems to elicit the sort of benign apprehension that the man with the pitchfork desperately wants to celebrate with a half-hearted poke. He trots closer — closer — readies his weapon —

...and pricks Lan Wangji's flank, in the most awkward nudge the world has ever glimpsed that somehow still seems determined to graze Wangji's silks. He hesitates. Stares down, where metal's bitten his embroidery. The eye of an expectant crowd widens and stares back.

And then the man of the pitchfork mutters, 'You can't be sitting your dragon on just any main road. Take him off the crossing.'

Ah. Lan Wangji has... parked his dragon against local regulations. Of course. )

Fault is mine. ( Arguably, for breathing on premise. I shall — and here, a tentative tip of his head, searching Wrathion's gaze for something like — cooperation. ) ...remove him?

[groundrules]

You can take a part of just the burlap — maybe cut it off? — but pulling the entire head off would risk imbalancing the ship too much, I think!

[valeas]

That works! It's more than enough to potentially compare notes. Or er creepy burlaps.

[valeas]

( Her thoughts race and so does Opal, their return more volatile than their departure. Where the dragon had once sought closeness, now it seems eager to reach their destination, that Emilia may dismount. Understandably. Death touches her fingertips, though she no longer bears the pain of it.

And so, the racing.

Have dark waters changed dragons in some way, as they changed animals and vegetation in the House of Ravens? Since then, they've not seen an undead liege. Is one closer than she realizes? Did Serthica make a deal the way Taravast once did, born of desperation from the coal sickness?

If eyes are rent willingly, what else? Does Chrichter have a mirror, is he being consumed? He's lost it.

So on. So forth. Upon arrival, she has no venom to give. She would not betray Lan Wangji, his presence, even if she could think of something to say. He anticipates where she braces, and he does not disappoint: Emilia can see it, see the moment he registers the difference. The mark of a deadened thing.

Aiva is creating enough disruption in the dragons. Emilia is encouraged to seek distance, lest she aggravate it. She does finally speak, once there is enough space between herself and the nesting grounds. ) We found the ship. It housed dark waters.

( Housed much more, but she begins here, with a constant that has followed since Sa-Hareth. )

[blackscales]

[ Wrathion wonders, idly, what those from Azeroth would think if they saw him thusly accused of belonging to this man -- and of being in the way on a main road.

Truly demeaning.

He catches Lan Wangji's gaze and narrows his eyes, gives a more begrudgingly soft grumble of assent and flares his wings a little to try and... encourage those around him to give him room. If they want him to move they need to allow him space. Titans, what is wrong with people?

Once a few shuffle back he begins to inch forward, lashing his tail unhappily to try and encourage more of them away.

Please. He is not opposed to leaving. He would love to get away from him and toward the nest if they would only let him.

A child steps forward, desperate to touch his wings, and Wrathion's enormous head turns to glower at it.

These children truly have no manners -- correction, these people have no manners. He saw that man with a pitchfork. ]

shelter for the night

[weifinder]

He turns, Lethe butting against his side and making for the cave without so much as a backward glance. Wei Wuxian is left blinking after the white dragon trailing saddle and straps and reins that did nothing to reign in impulses, which he thinks Lethe might benefit from.

The dragon's dismissal is as easily felt in return.

"I can offer us warming talismans, or those stones from... were you even here yet, when we had the thralled stones for heat?"

He smiles, more the awkward black-clad gaunt man than he ever is, uneasy with the whole of this, knowing that's no small part coming from the dragon he shares bond with. That this is finding one answer in many, and what new questions they'll have, and where those will lead too.

To a citadel with dragons born feeling dead, and the sickness it leaves in his stomach, wondering what if. His nightmares are worse, for all he can't recall their details waking, and that too drags his feet, even with Lethe already making a place to curl up along with Emilia's dragon bond.

[downswing]

( He stills. It is natural to him, inertia, as if he were born to death and made exorcist through the timid, contorted extension of his flesh, purposed. As if he were less man, more lake — a surface untroubled. Indifferent. Resilient.

His eyes strain, to look at her as if he sees light, blinding. He anticipates, briefly, a state of disaster: that she brings news of further wickedness, of cruelty, of death, of pox, of plague, of madness. Malice and misfortune come three in the cradle. She has only delivered the first babe.

His fingers draw to a curl, half-moons tracing the flesh of his palm. In his head, sallow screams. )

And the dead...? ( This, then, has been the marriage: dark waters. The insidious sorcery of the land. Disaster. )

[downswing]

( A slow, slithering, wormed exit. The first citizens who come close do so with open hands, some seeking to stroke. It has arrived with them, with something like delayed finality, that if the Great Dark Dragon departs now, he will not be seen again — and with him will flee their single opportunity to say they've touched his fine, nightmarish scales.

A part of Lan Wangji metabolises their curiosity as affection. They are people fond of dragons, inured to them. Accustomed to their presence, from life as young as that barely drifted from a cradle.

They do not intend to offend or ridicule him. And Lan Wangji, carefully gliding to lower the nearest searching fingers with a slow swing of his sheathed blade's hilt, does not reward their overture with violence.

When he reaches Wrathion, he thinks to search him for reins. Shudders, with the abrupt realisation that he has neglected a freed creature wants no fetters. But submission is expected, cooperation paramount, and so in the world's most unexpected approximation of Wei Ying, he —

...whistles. Once, curly, done. And a nod later sees him giving the start, waiting on the great beast to shift his heft beside him. )

We intend to depart peacefully to the nests. ( A pause, then. ) Do not touch him. He is — ...dark. For his sorrows.

( Not a lie, in truth. Most of Wrathion's griefs, after all, start in his head. Come along, now. )