westwhere | the sunken

the sunken | part i

THE SUNKEN

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Welcome to the first log of Arc VI: the Sunken, which covers 15 May – 2 June and doubles as a test drive meme.

Back/forward date as needed! The calendar date suggestions are indicative.

The TDM is open to everyone! If you decide to apply to the game, you can get an invite from current players or the upcoming enabling meme — or participate in the test drive meme and get in touch @

groundrules to chat things over. We currently have 13 slots available for new players.

Test drivers can use this post for logs and network posts — old timers, please make your network posts at

eastbound.

LOST AT SEA | TEST DRIVE TOURISTS

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You wake, gasping, in a stormy sea, your thoughts slowed to a confused trickle. Skill, floating wood or a kindly stranger — who you can’t understand — help you to reach shore.

Villagers discover you collapsed on sand and provide critical (if rickety) communication and translation devices. They say you are in Sunken Yancai, a fishing village progressively overtaken by waters and cursed by the secretive ‘ladies of the lake’ to transit through time.

■ Rescuers group newcomers and supply questionable village couture, warm meals and accommodations in abandoned, half-flooded homes or spare small boats anchored in Yancai’s waterways. Huddle up, recover your strength and don’t think too hard on why your memories are hazy over the next three days.

■ Come morning, you visit village leader Quanze Tsaymien, then the sorceress Karsa — who explains you are otherworlders summoned into Akhuras by undead lords who wish to weaponise you in their battle against humans and one another. Karsa is an associate of the Merchant, who leads otherworlders towards ancient transport beacons east.

■ One such beacon rests dormant in Yancai. The group must infiltrate the village and wait a few weeks until it shifts to a point back in time when the beacon was active.

■ Newcomers are handed passport papers with their new identities in Yancai, where they may be known as a bankrupt merchant, perpetually drunk sailor, whale hunter, raft surveyor, mermaid who has just gained their legs, crab collector... feel free to invent a dutifully ~~hilarious~~ apt role for their seaside sojourn.

OLD TIMERS | THE DRIFTING

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You dragged yourself here in a haze. You arrived long ago, as if in a dream. You were born and bred in this village. In truth, your memories of reaching lively Yancai feel nebulous and alarmingly inconsequential.

Characters are facilitated new identities and dwellings by the Merchant, or believe they have had them all along.

■ A weary Karsa warns to say nothing to party members with altered memories, until the sorcery that affects them runs its course.

■ Memory-altered characters progressively regain their memories within three to five days (by 20 May). They have their memories partially or fully back at night ( midnight to 5 a.m.). Throughout the day, memory regains can trigger migraines, eerie confusion and paranoia.

■ Hauntings begin once characters have fully regained their memories.

■ Once everyone is ‘back to normal,’ Karsa explains that Yancai periodically transits through time. The memory alterations are a magical solution endorsed by the village council, which ensures locals mentally weather these shifts. Villagers continue to blithely accept you as part of the community.

(DON'T) HOLD YOUR BREATH

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Karsa reunites the existing party and newcomers, issuing first assignments. The Merchants’s information suggests the beacon of Yancai will be online once the village travels in time within weeks. A dubious Karsa asks the party to check on the beacon, located in the former House of Commerce of the largely inundated merchants’ district. Reach it by rowing boat.

■ Villagers say the Master of Commerce, a famous musician, took precautions against intruders.

■ All ground and lower floor entryways of the palatial House were boarded to restrict flooding. To enter, pick locks or climb the putrid stairwell towards upper balconies.

■ Inside, the hissing of running water — and, in the lower levels, of thin, slippery leeches whose bite numbs your limbs, while they attempt to feed. You seem to experience pronounced vertigo when entering any decaying rooms covered in black mould.

■ The beacon is located on a dais in the basement vault room, where water rises near 1 meter. Only a few scattered scrolls and golden decorations remain among decorations, while a large ceiling carving writes, greed deafens man to the cries of his conscience; music sets him free.

■ Some tiles of the marbled floor stand out as you wade — step on one, and all doors abruptly slam shut, while dozens of obscured holes in the wall start to rapidly spill water, threatening to fill the room to the ceiling within the hour. You hear the tinny, waning sound of a village song played from a hidden source.

■ To stop the pouring water and open the doors, sing the song you hear, or find the music box that produces it amid debris on the water-covered floors. Wind it, and it plays its song in reverse, revealing the voice of a laughing elderly man who says, Depressingly, Anurr was right to worry.

■ Don’t forget to check the beacon — and report back to Karsa that it looks structurally untarnished.

THEY SLEEP

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After surprising revelations at previous citadels, Karsa tasks you to investigate just how… permanent death is in Yancai. Villagers share that their dead are buried in a strange rite at sea — part of which will take place within days.

■ The dead are ‘entombed’ in one-man sarcophagi ships with carved and chained lids that depict their likeness. These burial boats are set at sea on the first day of each season and return three months later.

■ Join the harbours around 22 May, when mourners gather to receive the burial boats. Characters must pretend to be greatly anguished relatives, acquaintances or debt collectors to join the grieving.

■ The boats float towards you, seemingly of their own volition. Gaze afar and spot a boat carrying a man in black — the same who haunts some characters — who observes until the last burial ship has reached the piers, before he disappears.

■ Sailors draw up the boats and unpeel the untouched chains and lids, to reveal… no corpses. Peer closer and find neither biological signs (stench, liquids) of discomposure, nor the magical chillness of spaces where cadavers have lingered long. Scratch marks litter the inside of some boat lids.

■ Mourners seem grateful that the waters have ‘accepted’ the bodies. Some say that their relatives whose boats have yet to return must have been stolen by the ‘ladies of the lake,’ a villainous witch coven. Speak to mourners or sailors for clues.

■ Linger long near opened burial boats, and you feel tempted to throw yourself into the sea, slowly losing consciousness — until someone rescues you.

AMONG US

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On 25 May, village leader Quanze Tsaymien drags the chained and half feral mistress Miang-si to households and Yancai’s largest market square.

The young woman, he says, was seduced by the ladies of the lake — the furtive witch coven that condemned Yancai to time travel. Luckily, the village elders have… coaxed Miang-si back onto the righteous path.

■ Miang-si is brought door-to-door to point out her 'accomplices.' Ill at ease, villagers whisper of similar witch hunts leading to false accusations and blood-curdling repercussions.

■ Both men and women are suspected and brought before Miang-si. Perhaps she takes an eerie interest in you, getting especially close to catch your scent, touch or remark on (in)visible hurts, or even dotingly kiss you. If you whisper quickly while she’s near, you might be able to ask one question.

■ If you are patient and kind to Miang-si, she briefly squeezes your hand as she withdraws. Within the hour, you find blood writ on your palm that warns, Our fat moon rises red.

■ If you are agitated, or if Quanze rushes her during your visit, Miang-si erupts into sudden, side-splitting cackling — while you find yourself croaking like a toad, or transforming into one and retaining human speech. The spell dissolves after eight hours.

■ Quanze’s long-suffering men say this sorcery breaks faster if you kiss one of the curmudgeonly emerald toads that hide in some of Yancai’s lakes. Catch one such delightful, slime-spitting creature or barter it from merchants at a costly premium.

ILL MET BY MOONLIGHT

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A full moon is set to rise within days of Miang-si’s visit, on 27 May — just as Yancai shows signs of time shifting. Villagers are prone to stilling and staring askance, seeming lost or adrift.

The village itself evolves: one moment, the same house appears freshly new, then drowned, while waterways overfill with water, then seem barren. Overall, the village deteriorates.

■ That day, the sun suffers a midday eclipse, while droves of black birds circle the woods and village outskirts, attacking those who come close.

■ The waters increasingly thicken and darken, preventing boats from entering certain waterways.

■ An exceedingly bright moon and a diffuse lunar replica rise with nightfall. Come midnight, the village is alive with the sounds of ripping, structural collapse and shrieks. Tar-covered corpses emerge from the waters, clawing on and climbing up piers. They swarm, drawing passers-by into waters to drown them. Help them — and foremost, yourself.

■ Light and fire keep the dead at bay. On some waterways, wildfire now spells, WHAT IS WET WAS WRONGED

■ Weaker alone, fresh corpses climb into your rowing boat, pretending they are innocents who seek shelter. They betray themselves by speaking very slowly, struggling to keep track of the conversation or obliviously peppering it with details of their death. They stubbornly ask questions about you, repeating your answers, and become violent if you say they are dead. Push them into the water at first opportunity.

■ Quanze Tsaymien and other men of the village take arms, urging villagers to barricade in the nearest home, harbour or warehouse and weather the night. They advise to be silent and beware the dead who imitate living voices, warning not to touch any black mould or water that suddenly appear in your home — which alert the dead of your presence within.

■ Some dead try to tear you apart, while others seek to feed you a disgusting, tar-like black mould. A small taste of it makes you sluggish and feeble for two-three hours, while an entire fistful can kill.

■ If the undead infiltrate your house, hold your breath, do not move and keep from screaming. The dead have weak sight and olfactory senses and might pass you by, as long as you stay silent. It can be more efficient to fool than kill the dead.

■ By 5 a.m., houses start to replenish themselves, gaining a new appearance, while water and mould retreat. The dead withdraw into waterways. Outside doors have been marked with blood: vertical lines tell how many living people remain inside; horizontal ones count how many within died overnight.

■ You step to seize a brave new day — while Yancai enters a new time period (further details due in the next plot update).

NOTES

■ The game enabling meme goes up on 25 May.

■ Hit up available NPCs here or in their new inbox!

■ QUESTIONS.

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That is quite the entertaining reaction, given a drunken Wei Wuxian circled around all the Most Appropriate things to call his new brother-in-law back home. His smile brightens in the corners of his eyes, amused, but he keeps tabs on it and smoothly replies as though noticing nothing amiss with a sudden choking fit post-flute playing. Totally normal, that. He does it all the time.

"I have met with Wangji, yes. He spoke of you."

He nods agreeably, not about to divulge the traumatic Twin Jades moment that occurred during a much-needed hug.

"Zewu-jun is still acceptable, don't worry."

He wouldn't want to make Wei Wuxian feel like he's missing out on a joke somewhere.

( He looks at them, each man, each face: stormed, wretched, reduced. Tight like linen stiff, like rope holding. These are not people cut from the stone of practicality, not men accustomed to minding their dead. The astringent pinch of sea salt in their wounds is the most they'll tolerate for discomfort.

They cannot have practised, he thinks, the plumping and readying of flesh, the application of cosmetics, the delicate exercise of sitting dead men and women in final repose that respects the wounds of their passing and represents them with honour. )

They must be served by an embalmer. ( No. Too primitive. Too — spartan. He hesitates: ) A... rite master.

His eyes glance past the elder Twin Jade, clocking where the shifting mass of death energies and their shambling or jerkily coordinated singularities still moved as if part of a greater, hungrier mass of want. These dead are different and similar to others before, less perceptive in ways, and that's easier to think on than other things, but he relaxes his shoulders, shifts his gaze back to Lan Xichen. They have moments where doors hold steady and no screams stir through the night, only the feral sounds of the dead and the banging of bodies against wooden structures, splashes through watery shallows.

He spoke of you. Feeding his assumption about what Lan Zhan shared, and that's irrelevant to anyone outside of his head as it comes. He smiles, instead, offering a half shrug and what might have been a wink, "Only complimentary things, I'm sure!"

With a shift of expression, more serious, he adds, "He's struggled. Formed his own bonds here, navigated his own paths. He's missed you, deeply." For a man who has his own complications in brotherly affection, who has moments where he and Jiang Cheng almost feel in step, in tune, and more often where they do not, but well aware they both care with intensity, he knows missing. He speaks of it now for the same reason he felt Lan Xichen, Zewu-jun, had spoken to him where Lan Zhan had not; communication the horse they continue to tame together, tempted with sweets, then darting off again in fine fettle and silent regard, hooves flashing and dangerous.

"We're all only what we make of ourselves from blank paper in this world." Not an experience either of the Twin Jades could understand on their own world, formed and labeled and molded from birth by their clan in ways that Wei Wuxian, adopted orphan, despised and loved unequally, was not. "He hasn't looked away."

Not from that challenge, and not from the confrontation with self. Yet to be known, to be known to his core, is helped further by one who had been part of his raising, and not part of what stokes fire and impulse and everything else grasping in Lan Zhan's hands. Wei Wuxian knows this. He suspects Zewu-jun does as well.

Clapping his hands together, he smiles again, as if the serious nature of what he'd said need only flow with the course of conversation onward.

"When do you arrive from, ge?" Ge it is, with a twinkling of mischief in his eyes as the oddity of it trips across his tongue.

Excellent, thank you!

( We. An army, a legion, all the hands that took steel and imprecations against Wei Ying and wore them true, wore them well, who turned tiger's eyes on him, who showed fang, who lusted for his meats, the crackle, thin, of his bones, unwinding. And how many legions sprawled like fungi in soiled waters by moonlight, at Nightless City?

He remembers, his brother, armed. Shielded. Remembers, Lan Wangji too, indifferent and undecided. Flinches, but does not speak the truth of memories like prickling nettle needles. )

Newly arrived. A first attack. ( Apologies, little information known. But: ) Four of us share a lair. Brother may adjoin.

The lavish details he gains from speaking with Wei Wuxian are so pointed, so keenly spoken, that he feels the pride in the other man when it comes to their mutual connection, and he's reassured about his relief that Wei Wuxian has been here with his brother. For him.

"I never imagined he would fail anyone," he says calmly without prelude, because it's true; the day Wangji looks away from a challenge is the day he's dead. Xichen gives Wei Wuxian a grateful nod. "Thank you, for standing with him."

As for when he is from, a note of shame trickles down his spine. He can't bring himself to lie, only pause before admitting,

"I am three months into my seclusion, after the Guanyin temple fell."

As much as he cannot and would not abandon Wangji and the others here, he longs for the silent walls of the hanshi and the encompassing quiet that smothered his thoughts. His fallen smile hitches back up, not wanting to worry Wei Wuxian. It's nothing important that will affect his actions, it isn't appropriate to be in mourning for his own heart here.

"And yourself?"

...it is a good and wondrous and most appropriate thing for a young man, well past Lan Wangji's own maturity when he first entertained such notions, to think nothing of kissing. What can do for him, to him? Nothing, to no advantage. Withdraw yourself, young turnip, from every petty or sprawling consideration of erotic thought.

Ponder, much better, the enlightenment of toads — one yowling grotesquely far on, as if it spills out the tragedy of its lone existence to the heavens. Lan Wangji shudders, then — politely, as if doing them both a kindness — silences it.

By the time of Lan Sizhui's return, an entire parade of long-suffering toads has gathered on stretches of lotus, gazing petulantly at Lan Wangji as if he has personally and irrevocably wounded one and all. Mute, but riotous.

He sighs, but acknowledges Sizhui with a nod, waves him close. There, young disciple. The enemy.

"They come as legion."

Which four?

[ Are there not more here he mentioned? He cocks his head inquiringly, wondering which grouped together. ]

We were assigned quarters.

( As if they were disciples again, finding their place in barracks, and not men grown. As if it does not offend to be settled into sleeping arrangements for the convenience of others, like cattle. )

Wei Ying. Wangji. ( His mouth, slowly wet, glistened. Beneath moonlight, every sin seems stark. ) The woman Yelena. The witch Vanessa.

( A pause, and careful: ) No perversion. No indignity. ( Two men do not corrupt the honour of these women. )

Wangji, [ he hardly keeps his smile at bay, ] I assumed none.

[ Besides, as crazy as Wangji is for Wei Wuxian, Xichen somehow doubts his protective little brother would splash around the intimacy of their relationship in front of anyone, let alone strangers. ]

The 'witch' ... ?

[ That can't be good, surely. ]

( The trouble with whites of silk, blasphemed by tragedies of viscera beneath moonlight is, red coalesces as dark, wetness intensifies, and before Lan Wangji understands the truth of his sartorial metamorphosis, he has gone, splendidly from the riches of Cloud Recesses to the rag-skins of the dead. He is half tar, half a negotiation of sickly, dubious fluids he neither embraces nor contests, sword cunning and her blade silvered, and all that remains of him silent.

The night has drawn fickle, long. Cloying in the way of rancid mould and rancor, and he breathes with a sense that his lungs have thinned and saturated, like drenched gossamer. By the time he faces the young man — boy — they are both sickly and trodden by remains, sluggish and resembling the enemy.

Crossing paths on the piers, to the howl of deadened things beyond, Lan Wangji considers — then raises his blade lethargically. )

...livened?

( He thinks, by the look of the boy, there are too many curving joints to him. This is where the dead are foiled: less than in their skins and their bone, more in their eroding, molten cartilage. The movements of a living creatures gain their grace from arcs, from swings, from steps and dances.

The dead cannot imitate precision or elegance. Still, best to... inquire. )

Wei Wuxian offers no contradiction, though he doesn't agree: Lan Zhan has failed people, himself first and foremost, but has not stopped striving to not let such things happen again. He doesn't wish for Lan Zhan to carry any guilt when it comes to these things, but he will, these days, hold him as accountable as he once wouldn't have said a word over, too caught in the mire of his own lacking self worth and heartache for a world that proved as corruptible as he proved incapable of bending to public opinion or making himself vulnerable enough to ask those he cared for to help, to stand with him, instead of spare them from the decisions themselves.

None of them are perfect persons. Each has struggled. To a younger him, he would not have expected the degrees. To the man he is now, he admires them more for how they pick up and rebuild themselves even in the aftermath of life's harrowing trials and beautiful joyous moments.

Three months is not much time at all, all things told. He looks faintly quizzical when he's being asked his own arrival time; it's not affected, rather genuine, as over two years have passed since and there'd been nothing crystalline in the moment before his abduction to hold it strong in his mind.

"I think I was still traveling with Little Apple. Was I turned back toward Gusu yet? Or was I just considering it after traveling along the coasts?" His smile is wry, knowing, and he shakes his head, the almost apology that has no weight behind it, because in the end, it matters little. "Couldn't say I remember where exactly, but it was something like that."

Time where he presumed Sizhui and Wen Ning had made their efforts, and if not finished their cenotaph, then it was minimally well under way. Time where he knows Zewu-jun had been tucked away into the seclusion that was quiet echoing of thoughts to find a way through the understanding of the depths of betrayal he'd survived, even against his own in the moment inclinations.

Wei Wuxian understands that. Too well, perhaps, but it provides no kindness in answers here.

"This place preys upon what aches most in our hearts." Again a serious mien, his dark eyes swallowing light on this moon-full night as he observes Lan Xichen, not the world's wisest man, not the world's smartest man, but one of the genuinely kindest, one of the most loyal, one of the most willing to believe. Downfall in some stretches, saving grace in others. "Jin Guangyao was here, over a year and a half ago. He will stalk your dreams, your nightmares, your waking moments, as will every other regret and pain. It's the nature of the curses here, ge. You're not being granted the luxury of healing quietly."

Soft, his voice, when he says that much. Not presuming, stating factually, because these are hard truths that must be delivered, understood. He is not a man for gentleness in these truths, no, not when to pretend they aren't looming will do more damage than directing attention to what haunts the man before him.

"You do not stand alone. If nothing else, allow Lan Zhan to be at your side as you are at his."

The or else the suffering you'll face will be untenable goes unsaid. This place is no better at disguising their weakest points, their unhealed wounds, than a Lan is inclined to bathe first in a heated spring's waters to heal.

I am Beitang Moran.

[Oops, he forgot to introduce himself, but also normally, people know him so he forgets.]

And no, it is not the first time. Nor is it the fist time we have met a place where time did not work the way it is supposed to.

Beitang Moran, former Imperial regent of Huangdao.

You are, I presume, family with Master Lan Wangji?

( He's silent for a moment, watchful and waiting and morose, water pooling and gathering and coiling around his spine. Pinning him in place, gaze arrested on the ceiling, as he assesses, hesitantly: )

Could be old. ( Easily dismissed. Irrelevant. Cryptic, but —

Mugen stays punishingly cold, helpfully in hand. A sword by any other name is still the trick up your sleeve when things go impossibly, inevitably south.

He's not enough of a fool to lie. )

...doesn't look it.

.... Excuse me?!

[Xie Lian actually looks shocked as he turns around. And to cultivator as skilled as Lan Xichen, it will be obvious that there's a massive amount of power coming rom this person, and a just as massive force keeping it very tightly locked and contained.]

( A fine thing, to count on the utmost and unwavering faith of a brother. Others — fools — would presume belief that Lan Wangji and Wei Ying were entertaining their own mischief, a harem. There are... unpleasantries wagging tongues conspire to manufacture from distressed, if slightly incriminating circumstances.

Brother does not question, does not oppose. Silks blood-sodden, step weighted, Lan Wangji starts them on the route to his — 'home' of designation. Ah, but how to tell Xichen — )

A sorceress. Turmoiled temper. Fragile. ( Lacking the heat of Chifeng-zun, but no less wrathful. ) Apolgoies. The dwelling is... humble. Stone.

( ...all. Stone. )

It is as if the world narrows down to the grip he has on Shuoyue, white-knuckled in such a primal reaction of revulsion that he tenses up, standing straighter as he hears the news Jin Guangyao was here and it obliterates the importance of anything else. It hurts, somewhere laced in wire around his ribs, to think of a-Yao walking and talking and being again, he cannot stand the notion of it; it makes him nauseated in a way that feels too much like cowardice and cannot be shown to others. Even the memory of him drove Xichen into seclusion. Despite being told about Lady Wen being alive, it never occurred to him that these same streets could have been walked by the one person who shredded his self-regard to tatters. He does not even want to be on the same physical plane where that ghost walked first, even if it is gone.

Wei Wuxian is saying something about Xichen sticking close to Wangji and, yes, he will, but also,

"What did he do while he was here?"

A-Yao. What kind of rage would you bring back to the waking world with you, a-Yao?

Xichen does not admit that Jin Guangyao already stalks his nightmares, let alone his entire life.

( there was a reasonable sofa nearby but that would be too easy, wouldn't it? besides, he likes the view of...whatever the hell is going on outside right now.

something's on fire, probably. he takes another drink. )

We drinking for anything specific today? You have a reason? I don't have a reason.

[ There is a cultivating bomb of a man walking around and it has the longest eyelashes batting in alarm that Xichen has ever seen. ]

I have tended to them, they will recover shortly.

[ Used a little of his qi to level out their unsteady insides, they won't be well but they will at least awaken and lumber home. ]

I was merely curious as to whether you were ... aware.

[ Apparently not, which is a small relief. His attention switches to the food being prepared, arching a brow. ]

That is my brother, yes. You know Wangji?

[ His little brother is quite the social butterfly, how interesting. ]

No apologies are necessary, this is not our realm. I am content to remain by your side.

[ He does not need much, truthfully, though it is always a bonus of being a clan member and sect leader besides. There will be nothing gained from vanity. ]

Is the sorceress a threat?

"He died."

Wei Wuxian's smile is thin, predatory in the way of a hunter who needn't do anything at all to be considered dangerous, time and again.

"Not by our hands," he says, offering the clarity that was his navigation of the dark reaching energies of Meng Yao, of Xue Yang, his firm boundaries with them and his lack of remorse in learning either man was gone. "By his own arrogance, in pursuit of a great sea dragon. He was resurrected — ah, that's entirely possible here, unlike in our worlds." He does not mention he's learned the means, or that he was why Meng Yao had been resurrected, to owe that debt of life to Wei Wuxian, as a calculated move to ensure his better behaviour against his worst tendencies when it comes to survival and self-absorbed mania. "Then he departed for good. The beacons work that way, sometimes."

He does not recall if Meng Yao had gone through a beacon.

He cannot find it in him to care.

"This was a long time past. Over a year and many citadels and villages ago." No part of their present path shared with a man who loved nothing beyond himself with any genuine depth of emotion.

I have a reason.

( and if he really looked at her he might notice something a little more haunted behind her expression, a stronger look than what's usually there, not masked as it tends to be )

I thought being on the train was bullshit. It got worse.

( it got worse isn't the full extent of her reasoning, it's barely scratching the surface on what exactly is worse. but it's a reason )

Died, again. This time by a dragon? And resurrected too, that does not sound pleasant. Xichen briefly closes his eyes and pictures the hanshi around himself, the walls and pictures of cranes, the soft colours, and he breathes steadier when his eyes open.

His grip on Shuoyue never slackens, however.

"Thank you for telling me."

Even if he feels ill as he offers a mild smile that drifts away as he looks down at the docklands.

"I am going back down there," he decides it on a whim, wanting any excuse not to think, "will you please try to create a funnel and keep them from encircling my back?"

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the sunken | part i

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